A Hard Place
by Gandalf3213
Summary: Sequel to Between a Rock. Riley is 16 when he recieves a letter saying Pop is out on parole. After the letter he gets calls and threats. After leaving the Gates, he runs into his worst nightmare. Can Ben save him in time? Does Riley want him to? AU
1. Warm Brown

_**A/N: For the overwhelming response to our first story, (**_**Between a Rock**_**, you should probably read that one first), this is for everyone out there who reviewed. We seriously couldn't have done it without you. And, of course, we don't own National Treasure. If we did, we wouldn't be writing fanfiction.**_

"_Someone told me long ago, 'there's a calm before the storm.' I know. It's been coming for some time." **Creedence Clearwater Revival**_

Riley was a normal sixteen year old boy the day the letter came.

In fact, he was above normal. Exceeding the averages in all his classes, he tied with Darrel for the top score. The boys often butted heads when it came to school, but only in fun. Outside, on their own, they used their free time to create two new video games.

"Come on, Ri, you're playing worse than Joy!" Darrel poked Riley in the chest. Joy, on the floor in a play pen, looked up when she heard her name, drool dripping from her mouth onto a ring of plastic keys. At almost two, she had intelligent, almond-shaped eyes and clear white skin, a true mutt. Darrel and Riley were taking on the role of babysitters for the day, opting out of a seven-hour car ride and lecture given by the Gates couple.

Riley swatted his black friend back, fist connecting solidly with thigh. He waved his hand as a sudden burst of pain burst through his fingers. Though he hadn't broken a bone in the two years he'd been with the Gates, old injuries still occasionally pained him, and his hand had been broken more times than anything else.

By shifting the joystick, Darrel was able to change his character from Arthur to Lancelot to Galahad or even, on Abigail's bid, Queen Morgan le Fey. This particular video game was a product of Darrel's intricate work, converting Riley's computer skills to a PlayStation adaptable consol, and the Gates' obsession with history. Riley himself was the one who suggest a Camelot setting, as he had been fascinated by the legend since getting his hand on _The Once and Future King_ three months after living with the Gates.

They played in silence for a while. Even Joy was happily gnawing on her rings, feet wheeling lazily through the air. Riley looked down at her and smiled, pushing his glasses further up his nose so he could see her. She really was a beauty, slanted eyes and high cheekbones contrasting with blond hair and fair, freckled complexion. She was talking, and said his name as 'Wi-Wi'.

Abigail said it was cute, but the first time Darrel had heard it, he wouldn't quit with the nickname for a month.

"So, you're going with Ben next week?" Darrel moved his knight, blocking Riley's view of the castle he'd been aiming to invade.

Riley nodded, glowing inside. "Yeah. He's been promising to take me ever since Joy was born, but he's never really had the time. Now he's closing in on the treasure, and says I could help him more on the field. We're going to the Rocky Mountains."

"Ever been camping?"

"No. First time for everything, right?"

And he'd had a lot of first in the past two years. First time riding a bike, swimming in a pool, going ice skating. First public presentation, walk-a-thon, s'more. First, second, twentieth museum. First Communion, first Confirmation, first time feeling secure in the eyes of God.

First time going to a circus. This had been just a week before, when, in the heat of summer and unwilling to drive two hours to the beach on a Friday afternoon, Ben had suggested heading to the Big Top, which had just come to the area, two towns over.

Abigail was clutching Joy, who sat patiently through the whole thing, clapping her hands every time the lions roared, even though all the other babies cried. Riley slinked in behind Ben and sat very close to the older man, eyeing the men on the floor suspiciously. He didn't like crowds, didn't like being around men he didn't know. He suspected that would never change, thanks to Pop.

"Want to go somewhere quieter?" Ben had whispered in his ear, but Riley shook his head, cringing when an air horn blew over the audience. So many times, Ben had left with him when he was uncomfortable in a new situation, but this was supposed to be fun. Only little kids were afraid of clowns.

He looked over at Joy, saw her smiling face, and motioned to Abigail to hold her. Having the solid, damp weight of his younger sister on his lap made Riley feel more secure, and slightly braver. He'd once confessed to Darrel that he looked p to Joy, that she made him do things he wouldn't normally do. Darrel had taken him seriously, as always, and didn't laugh, telling him that it was probably normal, though how much did he know about Riley's situation?

With Joy on his lap, he felt a little safer when the clown came by next. Dressed in over-sized suspenders and a painted white face, he made a motion towards Riley, who flinched at his hands, jerking away so quickly he startled the baby, now dozing, in his lap. She opened her mouth in the beginning of a cry and Riley felt terrible, guilty, ashamed. Old feelings die hard.

An impossibly gentle hand cupped his face and Riley was forced to stare into the deep, dark eyes of a circus clown as paint was put on his cheek, marking the path of a single blue tear.

"No!" Darrel yelled, watching as Riley stole his castle and stormed it with a hundred knights. "How do you always win?"

"I bugged it in my favor." Riley joked, setting the controller down and stretching.

"You're lying, man," Darrel slapped him on the back, hard. Riley's eyes fluttered closed and he groaned, descending onto the chair he'd just vacated. Not in two years had his back ceased to hurt him, and though his friends and family mostly remembered not to aggravate it, there were times when they'd slip and forget, think he was normal and not screwed up. Riley liked that, liked that they weren't always thinking about how dirty he was, about his past mistakes.

"Oh, God, Riley, I'm sorry." The teen backed away, though his hands flew imploringly to Riley's back. He knew that the last thing his friend wanted was to be touched, but he couldn't help himself sometimes. Taking a cloth from the counter, Darrel ran it under cool water and carefully, slowly lifted Riley's shirt, not missing the stiff back, the soft groan.

As always, seeing Riley's back angered him. A mess of scars from knives and wood and even the blunt, terrible lines of a two-by-four, it was a lasting reminder of Pop's cruelty. He placed the cool cloth on Riley's back, moving it gently along the more grisly marks.

"I'm sorry." Darrel sighed at the words, remembering a time when they were among the only ones to come out of his friend's mouth. Riley was better now, but he was still afraid, always afraid, and Darrel didn't really know how to make it better.

"It's alright."

"They just hurt some times."

"I shouldn't have hit you. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know."

They were quiet until Joy began fussing on the floor, throwing her body around until she tottered unsteadily to her feet. Darrel scooped her up, motioning for Riley to stay where he was. "I'll change her, you rest." He glanced at the clock, "Ben and Abigail will be back soon, anyway."

As if his words had summoned them, the front door opened and the couple walked in, looking worn from the long ride but otherwise pleased with themselves. "Riley! We're home!" Ben poked his head in the door to the living room in time to see Riley ball the towel in on e hand. "You okay?"

"Fine." Riley's smile only seemed a little forced. "How was the lecture?"

Abigail breezed in, having captured Joy from Darrel. "Ben went off on a rant. He lasted an hour longer than everyone else."

"It wasn't a rant, I was merely pointing out to the man that, while President Polk is not one that people usually chronicle about, he did have some high points in his career." Ben placed his hand lightly on Riley's shoulder, squeezed, meaning, in a gesture, _are you sure you're okay_?

"Yeah," Riley glanced up at the man who was, for all intents and purposes, his father, "Remember the Alamo?"

"Not exactly the high point I was talking about, kiddo." Ben ruffled Riley's hair. "You ready for our trip?"

"Can't wait." Riley said, and meant it. He loved Abigail and his sister, but he was closer to Ben than to anyone else, Darrel included. It was improbable that, after Pop, he'd take on another male mentor, but he felt himself drawn in by Ben's confidence, stubbornness, charisma, all things Riley wanted but could never quite achieve. He tried too hard.

"You have mail, Riley." Darrel pointed to the table, where the day's mail had been dropped by Abigail when she walked in the door. "Looks official."

Riley glanced at it and motioned Ben over, recognizing the state seal of Pennsylvania. He'd been formally adopted more than a year before, and was no longer a ward of the state. Why, then, would he be getting mail from them?

Ben shrugged in response to Riley's unasked question. "Just open it. How bad can it be?"

With Darrel, Ben, Abigail, and even little Joy watching, Riley opened the envelope, and his life fell apart. Again.

_Dear Mr. Poole_, (it read)

_This is to inform you that Mr. Thomas A. Poole his been released on parole from the state Penitentiary... _

**Complication in the first chapter! I mean…uh…poor Riley.**

**Yes, as always, please review.**


	2. Pitch Black

"_If only, if only," The woodpecker sighs, "The bark on this tree was as soft as the skies!" As the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely, he howls to the moon, "If only, if only…" __**Louis Sachar**_

Ben smiled at Riley when he came bounding down the stairs at seven in the morning, completely dressed, eyes bright, hair mussed from sleep. "We have six hours until the plane, kid."

"I've never been on a plane before." Riley said for about the eighteenth time, and for the eighteenth time Ben grinned, happy to see Riley happy.

"I know, Ri. Settle down, will you?" A week ago, after getting the letter, nothing anyone said could bring Riley out of his self-induced funk. Though Darrel came by every day, and Ben tried to talk to him, and Joy climbed on his lap during mealtimes, Riley wouldn't speak to anyone. For two days he wouldn't eat, which made Ben more nervous than anything. After fourteen years of near-starvation, Riley had never really gotten used to the three meals a day system.

Trying to be sympathetic to Riley's fears --- his father, who had beaten and starved and raped him for his entire childhood had, after all, just gotten out of prison. Legally. So Ben had started talking, wildly, with forced happiness, about their upcoming planned trip to the Rockys.

And Riley had listened. Then he began smiling, becoming excited, until four days ago he began to eat, and talk, and last night he laughed.

Ben watched as Riley sat, fidgeting, in front of his computer. Deciding there was really no way to get around the topic lightly he asked, his voice low, "Not worried about your dad, then?"

Riley's shoulders stiffened and the boy seemed to be forcing himself to go through the motions of turning on the computer. "Should I be?" He asked, thinking of Pop, who was huge, and persuasive, and didn't abide by the laws enough to pay attention to the restraining order the court had issued against him.

The historian crossed the room in a second flat and touched Riley's shoulder --- slowly, so he knew that Ben was going to. "No. Listen, we'll be gone for the next two weeks, just us and all your computers," Riley's mouth twitched into something that was almost a smile. "Maybe your dad will clear out in that time." Not that he was supposed to be hanging around anyway…

Riley looked at him, 'yeah right' written all over his face. Instead he cleared his throat and said, too loudly for the house that was still half asleep, "Everything's packed?" It shouldn't have been a question: Everything had been packed for a week, but this was, both knew, a change of subject. End of story.

"Yeah, it's packed." He looked at Riley, fidgeting at the computer, fingers tapping nervously on a keyboard that had taken so much pounding from him it didn't even groan under the abuse. "Why don't you find another outlet for your stress?"

"What?" Riley turned, blinking owlishly behind too-large glasses. Though Riley had grown some in his time with the Gates, he was still small, skinny, and had eyes too big for his face.

"Go make breakfast, Riley. Something complex enough to keep you occupied for an hour. Take Musetta with you." He nudged the sleeping German Sheppard with his foot, making the dog look up and stretch before padding behind Riley towards the kitchen.

"You're just trying to get rid of me, Ben." Riley called over his shoulder, this time making sure to keep his voice down, aware of Joy and Abby still sleeping upstairs. The two-year-old was bubbling over with energy, and though she was enormously cute, she was a lot to handle at seven in the morning.

Ben looked back at him, "You caught me, kid. This is a whole master plan for me to sneak off without you." He smiled, said the words gently, making sure Riley knew this was a joke. The kid had serious separation anxiety, and Ben didn't want to add to that. Instead, he watched as Riley whirled around the kitchen, putting together eggs, milk, flour, Musetta whirling between his legs.

The smell of rising dough woke Joy first. The girl flew down the stairs and banged into Riley, causing the boy to press his elbow into the pan he'd just taken out of the oven. "Ow!" Ben barely heard the cry of pain, but he looked up anyway. Abigail said that he was becoming attuned to the kids' cries of pain. Riley claimed that it was Ben's Spidey-sense a-tingling.

"Hey Joy," Riley easily scooped up the tiny girl, who was jabbering away in his ear, the word "Wi-Wi" often floating over to the couch where Ben was sitting. He stood, unable to stay away from the fun any longer.

He watched as Riley gently set Joy on the counter and gave her a small ball of leftover dough from the scones. "Don't eat it," The teen warned, putting a bony hand on top of Joy's head as the girl wrestled with the dough, rolling it furiously between her fingers until it became a tiny ball, a long string…

"You okay, Riley?" Ben stared pointedly at Riley's elbow which was an angry red. Riley stared at it for a moment before smiling up at Ben, "Nothing I can't handle," He wet his palm ad placed it over the burn, then ignored it. Ben shook his head and got a Band-Aid out of the cabinet under the sink. He pasted it over the patch of skin, reminded Riley that burns get infected easily, and they were going to the Rocky's, and camping, for goodness sake, and where was his head?

Riley grinned and asked if they were taking Jelly Beans on the plane.

Joy held up her ball of dough up for inspection, a requested a snow man, which she had learned how to make just two months ago, in April, when a late snowstorm made it impossible for them to get much past the house. Joy had lived up to her name in the snow, her dark hair bouncing when her hat inevitably came off and Riley had to chase her down with it.

Taking the dough between his fingers, Riley pressed it into three balls, stacked them on top of each other, and used some brown sugar for tiny eyes, a scarf, buttons. "You want to name it, Joy?"

"Wi-Wi!" she closed her fingers over the tiny man clumsily and crushed it. "It's awl gone!" She wailed, opening her fist to reveal a pancake of dough.

Riley, a patient teacher, showed Joy how to roll the balls herself. When the oven beeped, he took more scones from the oven.

"Geeze, Riley, don't leave this stuff in the middle of the floor!" A bag came flying in from the hallway, tossed by Abigail, who had just tripped over the duffle full of wires and plugs.

It happened in an instant. Riley, just about to set the tray down on the counter, looked up to see the bag coming towards him and flinched. Joy, in the path of the bag and still perched on the counter, turned and stared, wide-eyed, at the bag hurling at her small body.

Ben acted without thinking (and he would regret it, regret it _so much_ in the days and weeks to come. If only. If only…) he pushed Riley out of his way, elbowing him in the stomach, pushing his shoulder, reaching for the tiny girl on the counter and causing the small boy to overbalance and fall. he shielded Joy with his own body, letting the bag hit his back before falling harmlessly to the floor.

Shaking his head from the pounding of the blood in his face, Ben stared at Joy, who he was clutching too tightly in his hands. Her face was beginning to pucker and redden. "Shh…"he whispered quietly. Then he heard the groan.

Riley looked up at him from the ground, eyes wide and confused. "Ben?" He questioned, then arched his back in pain. The hot pan hand fallen on his chest, and the scone that had sat on it was currently being eaten by Musetta.

Ben bent, terrified, but stopped dead when Riley flinched away from him, chest heaving. "You…hurt me." Betrayal, naked and cold, shone on Riley's expressive face. He stood, his body shaking with pain, his head shaking _no_. He looked down at his body, where red sores were already beginning to appear. With one last look at Ben (not even a glare of anger, more like…disappointment. Hurt.) Riley backed up, past the oven, past the dining room, out the door.

Joy was screaming. Abigail ran into the room at the noise, asking what had happened, but only one word was able to reach Ben's lips.

"Riley!"

**Yes, we're mean. Really, incredibly mean.**

**Review anyway.**


	3. Neon Orange

_Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief. So Dawn goes down to Day. Nothing gold can stay. __**Robert Frost**_

Ben ran out of the house before Abigail could call him back, before he heard Joy crying so hard she began to choke, before the situation became any worse than it already was. _Damn._

Riley was a good kid, loving, kind, patient and funny. But he couldn't deal with violence, not in real life, not around him. He flinched at blood, at police sirens and men with muscles. Ben had told himself, at the beginning, when he still didn't know how important Riley was, that he would never, ever raise his hand to the boy. There was no need to go down that road.

Pop, Riley's 'father', had done so many cruel things to Riley a boy that, when he had first come to live with the Gates, he'd thought beatings as punishment were not only acceptable, but required. Brainwashed from a young age that the beatings were the only way of showing love, he'd expected Ben to dole them out.

Which was why Ben's shove had been so great a blow to Riley's fragile world. The sixteen-year-old had learned to trust Ben, trust him to not hit him every day or starve him or rape him at night. And, for his part, Riley had been a model teenager, showing his appreciation for Ben by doting on Joy and debugging Ben's laptop, by climbing to the top of the class and laughing when he knew a history fact Ben didn't.

Ben had had the trust of a boy who trusted no one, who feared men and had no faith in public officials or schoolteachers. He'd managed to show that same boy how loving he world could be if looked at from a different perspective.

He'd had all that, and he'd thrown it away. Sure, he hadn't been thinking, had seen the bag coming at Joy and had forgotten about hot plates and hard floors and bruised backs. But Riley was his son just as sure as Joy was his daughter, and he should not be choosing one over the other.

It was a wet summer, not humid and cool enough for at least a light sweatshirt. Ben, in his polo and old jeans, felt gooseflesh break out along his arms and he rubbed them absentmindedly as he whirled about in a circle circle. "Riley!"

The yard was empty, though Riley couldn't have gotten very far in the ten seconds it took for Ben to get his wits together and chase him outside. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of red, Riley's shirt, as the boy whipped down the road on his bike. At least he wasn't so injured he couldn't balance on the bicycle.

Ben had taught Riley how to ride when, six months into living with the Gates, Riley had admitted he had never had a bike before. He'd been embarrassed, as he had numerously declined Darrel's invitations to go into town, unwilling to show that, at fourteen, he didn't know how to ride. His worry was unwarranted; Darrel, learning that Riley was mid-way through his bike lessons, had donated an old bicycle bell to the cause and encouraged Riley through the process, cracking jokes and making Riley smile at himself, rather than think of the know how to ride. His worry was unwarranted; Darrel, learning that Riley was mid-way through his bike lessons, had donated an old bicycle bell to the cause and encouraged Riley through the process, cracking jokes and making Riley smile at his own ineptitudes.

He watched the bike go down the road in a familiar direction and knew that Riley would be seeking sanctuary in Darrel's chaotic home, at least for the moment. That thought was enough for Ben to pause on his way to the car. Darrel was even-tempered and logical, and would probably convince Riley to make up with Ben by noon.

Trusting the other teen to comfort Riley, Ben forced himself back into the house, resisting every instinct to go after Riley. After all, he reasoned, he was probably the last person Riley wanted to see, and apologies would make no headway with Riley still licking his wounds, hackles raised.

"Babe?" Abigail stared at him, Joy quiet in her arms. There was a red sore spot on his daughter's arm, just where Ben had held her none too gently to pull her out of harm's way. It would bruise. For some reason, he couldn't even process that. He'd already screwed up one of his relationships with his kids.

"Ben, what happened?" She placed a delicate hand on Ben's arm and the man looked at her, worry laced in his features. "Where's Riley?"

Slowly, carefully, Ben explained the situation, using as few words as possible, but not de-emphasizing the role he'd played. He took responsibility. He just wished he could tell Riley that, hoped that Riley would understand.

Abigail opened her mouth, about to say that, even if Riley needed some space, they should check on him, make sure he was okay. Realizing she was over-reacting, she tactfully closed her mouth and set a now-squirming Joy on the floor.

"Where Wi-Wi?" Joy asked, slanted, intelligent eyes staring at her parents. She was sucking on her hand, a habit that the Gates couldn't break, no many how many different lotions and oils they swabbed her hands in.

Ben had to work to get past the lump in his throat. "He'll be back soon, Joy. You want a biscuit?" He handed Joy and scone and sat down at the table, as if nothing had happened at all.

* * *

When Riley ran out of the house, he had no intention at all to keep running, but the bike was just _there_, on the lawn near the back door, like a sign.

Perhaps he wasn't thinking rationally, but it felt so good to jump on the bike and run away, if only for a little while. His hands and neck stung, were red and blistered from being burned by the falling hot pan. He resisted the urge to rub them, knowing that would do more harm than good.

To his alarm, not to mention embarrassment, hot tears poured down his cheeks, dripping onto his burnt collar bone before falling to the ground that was rapidly passing under his bike tires. He couldn't believe what had just happened, except that the proof was on his hands, his neck, his sore, sore back.

Ben had always promised not to hit him, from the first week he was at the Gates. Riley (who had been through two years of therapy since) had been "brainwashed" by Pop, believing that abuse meant that somebody cared about you.

And from that day, Ben had been setting him straight on that fact. A plate of cookies after a terrible Monday, new programming software that Riley had been eyeing for months, a pat on the shoulder, a "good job," those were ways of showing love. Riley loved Abigail, loved her as the mother he'd never had, although he and Darrel both insisted that Abigail, at thirty-five, was nowhere near old enough to have a sixteen-year-old son.

But Ben and Riley understood each other. They needed each other, in different ways. Ben often said that Riley made him feel old, but Riley knew that he meant that Riley meant him feel young. And Ben provided the solid familiarity that Riley had always sought in his life, he brought a passion for history, a zeal for bettering human nature that was unparalleled. And Riley loved him.

Which was why that sudden hit had been so devastating. Riley felt betrayed by the person he looked up to most, and suddenly his idol was looking a lot more human.

He needed to get to Darrel. Darrel, with his rational way of thinking, would calm Riley down and tell him he was over reacting, would sympathize with the situation but also insist that Riley make up with Ben in time to go on that trip they'd spent months planning.

Riley sped up, anticipating Darrel's house, which was just around the next corner. Somehow, he knew that if he could just get to his friend, everything would be better.

But just as quickly as he sped up, he had to slam on his brakes, screeching to a halt as a car swerved just in front of him, stopping at such an angle that Riley had to stop or crash. Before he could give the driver a piece of his mind, they stepped out, and Riley's breath hitched.

"Hello, son. Long time no see." Pop said.

**The plot thickens. Review?**


	4. Stormy Grey

"_So that's what they call a family? Mother, father, daughter, son? I guess everything you heard about is true. So you ain't got any family, well you said you needed one? Ain't you glad nobody's waiting up for you?" __**Newsies**_

Riley didn't have time to run, or to fight back, even if he could. Pop was big and he was strong and easily outweighed Riley by at least two hundred pounds. Just seeing the man who had inhabited every one of his nightmares for two years managed to freeze Riley to the spot and hold him there.

In an instant, Pop's big hands clamped around his wrists. "I been waiting for you, boy. We're going home." Not even crying out, Riley was lifted into the back of Pop's aged truck and shoved into the seat with no little amount of force. He looked out the window in time to see his bike disappearing in the distance.

"Wait --- no!" Riley pushed his shoulder against the car door and squeezed the handle, begging for release. "You can't just take me!" He had forgotten that Pop's car doors didn't open, not unless you were in the front driver's seat of Pop pressed a button near the steering wheel. It had been helpful for keeping Riley in line when he was younger.

Pop peered at him through the mirror, and the gaze held such outright hurt and disappointment and Riley stopped short in his efforts and instead wrapped one arm around himself, feeling the burns on his chest and arms react to the violent abuse. "You're my son. You telling me I ain't allowed to see my own son?"

Recognizing the dangerous edge to the voice, Riley bit his lip and forced his voice to a whisper. He'd picked up so many habits with the Gates, he almost forgot how to be submissive, docile. "Ben's my father now, Pop. He adopted me."

In an instant, Riley was thrown against the car door, his head banging into the glass. He cried out in pain as his shoulder was wrenched, making the burns stretch and tear. Seeing stars, he came up for air to discover they had nearly careened off the road, so hard Pop had pulled to the shoulder.

Pop grabbed his collar and Riley moaned again, his head turning away from the big face and wild eyes. "Look at me, son. Look. At. Me."

Riley looked, confronting his worst fear face to face. For some reason, people thought this made you stronger, made you come over the phobia and move past it. But Riley was still as scared of Pop as he had been as a four-year-old, at eleven. He was the most terrifying thing on Riley's Earth, and right now he was taking up his entire vision.

"I'm you father, not some man who took you in out of pity when the cops grabbed you from me. This Ben Gates doesn't care a thing about you, you hear me?" Pop stared at Riley and snorted, throwing him onto the car seat with no small amount of force, making Riley hiss in pain.

"He turned you into a pussy. Look at you, crying from this. You don't remember pain, do you son? I'll make you remember, just you wait." Riley couldn't look, not any more. He turned his face away and watched the road disappear underneath the car, watched other people pass him by. Why did his life have to be so damn impossible?

"I bet that new dad of your gave you those burns. Don't think I didn't notice, son. You been babying them since I picked you up." Pop reached back and pounded Riley's burns, which were blistering badly now. "Isn't he some sort of professor smart guy? Doesn't he know that burns get infected?"

Even Pop, after one of his rages where Riley ended up with burns covering his body, would consent to taking Riley to the free clinic thirty minutes from their home. They would waste an afternoon waiting, but at least Riley wouldn't die before Pop had a chance to finish him off, and the doctors there never asked any questions.

"He didn't mean to hurt me." Riley said defiantly. "It was an accident. Ben likes me."

Again, the car jerked to the side of the road. Riley should perhaps be relieved that Pop didn't drive while angry, but being thrown against the car window for a second time wasn't a pleasant experience. "Don't you talk back to me, boy. Have you forgotten how to respect your elders?"

Riley shrank against the car, pressing himself against the seat. He always imagined what it would be like, if he had lived with Pop knowing what he knew now, that there were people who didn't want to hurt him, people to help, but even knowing that Pop had brainwashed him, he was still terrified of being anything but submissive to the older man.

"I'm ---I'm s-sorry, sir." He stuttered, cursing himself for his ridiculously high voice. He wished with all his might for the strength of character to stand up to the man who had tormented him for years, but knew that would never happen. Even after a two-year interlude, Pop still had so much power over him.

"And let's get something straight, son." Pop jabbed his finger into Riley's chest, but this time he didn't cry out, even when pain blossomed across his chest, hurting him so badly that he saw white stars blinking in his vision. "This Ben didn't _like_ you. He gave you his fucking pity. He was a hot-shot celebrity and you were his charity case. End of story." He turned back to the wheel. "The Gates don't give a damn about you."

He couldn't help himself. Though every instinct that had been bred into him from fourteen years of abuse and neglect cried out against it, the two years of love and loyalty to the man who had saved his life rebelled against the statement said so casually, so flippantly.

"You don't know Ben. He adopted me. He loves me."

The grey eyes that met his own blue ones were so stormy, so incredibly volatile that for an instant, Riley felt all of that old fear come back to him, validated. Those eyes proved that the man had the anger, the will to kill. "Don't talk back to me, son."

The fist came out of nowhere, and when Riley sank into the seat, his last thought was that he had spent a long time away from Pop if one punch could make him pass out like this.

* * *

Ben glanced up at the clock. It had been an hour since he had come back inside, resigned to the fact that Riley had no intention of speaking to him and every intention of venting to his best friend. He was trying to understand, but a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that everything was not well.

"I'm going to call Darrel's house." He said to Abigail, already holding the phone. At his wife's stern expression, he defended, quickly, "I just want to make sure he got there alright."

"Ben, he's ridden to that house a hundred times. I'm sure he didn't get lost." But even Abigail saw sudden flashes of Riley, curled in a ditch, Riley, bouncing off the hood of a car going much too fast. Sighing, she turned away from Ben, "Go ahead. Just don't try to talk Riley into coming home. He needs time right now."

Nodding, Ben punched in the number. "Hello, Mrs. Davis?...Yes, it is Ben. I just wanted to make sure Riley got to your house in one piece. He was kind of upset when he left…What?"

When Ben hung up the phone and turned to Abigail, his face was ashen. "He's not at the house. Mrs. Davis said she hadn't seen him since last night." He clutched at the counter, using it to anchor himself as the news washed over him. Riley, his Riley, his _son_, was missing.

"I'm going to find him." He grabbed his jacked before Abigail could stop him, tossing words behind him as he went. "Stay here with Joy, see if he comes home. Maybe he's just riding around, trying to run his energy down." But even as the words left his mouth he knew it wasn't true. Riley had been so jumpy since they'd received the letter saying that Pop was out of jail, he would never ride around on his own, no matter how much Ben assured him that there was no way Pop was going to grab him.

"He hasn't contacted you in two years." Ben had reminded Riley, sensing the boy's fears the night after the letter came. "Maybe he's…given up." And that was when Ben realized that it wasn't necessarily a bad thing for a parent to give up on their child.

And Riley had turned to him, with eyes so dead and devoid of hope that he suddenly resembled the boy Ben had seen at the half-way home two years ago when he first met Riley. "He'll never give up, Ben. Never."

As he ran out the door, skidding on the pavement in his hurry to open his car door, Ben was cursing himself for not listening to Riley. _I'm sorry, Riley. But I swear I'll find you_.

He drove at a break-neck pace, eyes scanning the road for any sign of Riley's passing, and then he got a big ugly one. On the shoulder of the road, lying on its side with one wheel spinning lazily in the air, was Riley's bicycle, not a hundred yards from Darrel's house. _So close, and yet so far_.

Fumbling in his pocket, Ben pressed 1 for speed dial. "Abby, call the police. Riley's gone."

**Review?**


	5. Sea Green

_So you think you can tell Heaven from Hell? Blue skies from pain? Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rain? A smile from a veil? So you think you can tell? __**Pink Floyd**_

When Riley woke up, he wasn't in his house. Not the one he'd lived in for fourteen years. Certainly not at the Gates mansion. He choked back the groan that was aching to leave his mouth and pursed his lips instead, arching his back with pain.

He hurt _everywhere_. Looking down, he gasped at the sight of his arms and chest, where the burns had turned a terrifying blue-green, looking well on their way to becoming seriously infected. _Damn_.

A movement in the corner made him look up, senses alert, but he wasn't expecting to see Pop walk in, a plate of eggs and bacon held in front of him like a peace offering. "Hey, son. Good to see you're finally up."

This wasn't a new tactic. He remembered, the first night after _it_ happened, when he couldn't even move from his bed, when he wished with all his heart that he was dead, not caring any more for removal from the man. He wanted instant reprieve, and only death seemed to be able to offer him that. When he woke from delirium-interrupted dreams, it was to a Pop who seemed loving, contrite, sorry, and remained that way for several weeks.

Before that, Pop would get it into his head to reform, though Riley could never point to a specific reason why. Whether the impetus was from the fear of God or a suspicious neighbor, Pop would allow Riley food and give him gifts and, for a little while, before Riley learned that this cycle was a part of the Nightmare That Is Pop, Riley would believe that, if he was good enough during those times, Pop would be nice always.

There was some part of Pop that…well, not loved…_needed_ Riley. There had to be, because why else would he hunt for Riley all over the state, dodging the restraining order put against him. And, before the Gates, Riley had needed, however reluctantly, Pop, because he was honest enough with himself to know that he would never look old enough to survive on his own without raising suspicion.

"Son? Are you alright?" Riley weighed his options in the space of a millisecond. He could say what was on his mind, what was in his heart, the truth. He could yell, stand up, tell Pop that, though they may be related on the biological level, he would never be Riley's father, that that place was already filled by Ben. He could say that he was not alright, that his burns were infected and being left in a cold, drafty shed of a home for who-knows-how-long wasn't helping the fact.

He could say that and be walloped into oblivion, because even the nice part of bi-polar Pop had a breaking point. He could say that and, more likely than not, be killed before Ben could find him.

Or he could play along and re-learn that submissive role he'd played so well. He could be silent and resilient and unopinionated. He could remember how to starve and take beatings and survive the (hopefully short) time until Ben found him.

If Ben came to find him. But Riley pushed that thought out of his head as soon as it entered, because if he let it eat him from the inside out, as if threatened, it would take away the last of his hope.

He'd been down that road once before, thinking he'd hit Rock Bottom when a court case deciding his fate, and possibly his continued existence, seemed to turn sour. Suicide had rarely entered his head before that, but since it had hovered in the dark recesses or his mind, looked at and examined as a bug under a microscope, a what if.

And, always, he'd promised himself that if he ended up with Pop again, he'd do it, because he still didn't exactly know how he'd spent fourteen years under the spell of the man.

But he had to stay strong for Ben, because he was coming. He was.

Forcing himself to meet Pop's eyes, he then quickly looked down, hunched in on himself to be smaller, unthreatening. "Thank you, Pop."

A hot, sweaty palm touched Riley's neck, contrasting completely with the chilly air. Too-familiar hairs stood up at the contact, the utter _wrongness_ of it. "I'm so glad to have you back with me, Riley. I've missed you so much."

Missed beating him up or starving him? Probably just missed having a body in the bed beside him, one that he could control with a few simple words. _I could kill you_. They were always said completely calmly, but Riley understood the concept of _psychopath_ long before his classmates for a reason. Pop presented a good front to the rest of the world, seemed like an average, blue-collar worker, but Riley knew that his mind was unbalanced, sick, twisted, and it seemed as if his carnal hunger could never be sated.

Gulping, Riley realized that, even in his desperation, he could not lie about this. He could not say that he'd missed Pop, or the Mountaintop home that they'd abandoned for this dingy shack, or the school system with its blind teachers and careless administration. He missed nothing about his life with Pop, but, with only hours being away from it, missed everything about Ben.

Ben knew instinctively when Riley was uncomfortable, upset, injured. He knew when to give him space and when to back away. He knew that Riley preferred to not be left alone with a strange man and he knew _why_. Even more importantly, he respected Riley's emotions and never, ever deliberately set them off.

Until everything went wrong at once. Until he pushed the scars that reminded Riley of old wrongs and chose Joy over an old foster kid, until he'd burned Riley, bruised him, hurt his psyche so much more.

The hand cupped his chin and Riley's head was tilted up to Pop's, until that was all he could see, so the rest of the world fell away, not ever there to begin with. "We're going to be okay, son. He'll never find you up here." With those words, that promised, Pop placed a soft kiss on Riley's upturned lips, sealing their fate.

* * *

"I can't just stay here!" Ben yelled, knowing full well he probably looked demonic to the scrawny FBI kid in his daddy's uniform. "I can't sit around while my son is with that monster!"

Agent Peter Sadusky stepped forward, catching Ben's arm. He'd been the first person Ben called when he realized exactly what happened. He'd been in regular contact with the federal agent since finding the Templar treasure, a camaraderie that blossomed into inevitable friendship born of freemasons and a love of history. It also helped that Sadusky, like the rest of the world, could not help but be charmed by the intelligent, fragile teen with too many one-liners for his own good. He liked Riley, and when Ben called him, frantic, he dropped everything to investigate.

"Walk with me."

They passed Darrel, pacing frantically around the house. As soon as he heard of Riley's disappearance, he'd hurried over, distraught, and even Ben could offer no comfort. They passed Abigail, staring blankly at Joy, who was happily coloring a picture of Winnie the Pooh. She was surrounded by three agents who were gently asking her impossible questions about motive and enemies. Ben brushed her hair, he arm as he walked by, assuring her and himself that she was real, that this was real.

It was too cold for July. The entire season had been wet but something chilly, sinister seemed to have entered the air since Riley's disappearance. The men walked in step for a while, Ben looking at everything in the yard that reminded him of Riley: chalk equations he'd worked out with Darrel while Joy painted a rainbow, a forgotten football from a terrible throwing session that had ended with a lot of dropping, a lot of laughter.

Riley had woven himself seamlessly into Ben's life. Even he had to admit that the teen was not even a test run, really. He was too patient, too kind, too damn scared to act out to be any sort of guideline for an actual emotionally stable child. Quiet and thoughtful and mature beyond his years, he'd made himself instantly needed, instantly missed in his absence.

Sadusky let Ben have his moment for as long as he thought prudent. Time was always of the essence in cases like this, and he'd seen too damn many. Kidnappings, custody disputes gone bad, they usually ended the same way: with a child being lost to the vastness of America.

"If I let you in on the investigation, will you stop harassing my men?" Sadusky asked, giving in.

Not an hour later, they were gone, Benjamin Franklin Gates, treasure hunter, crammed into the front seat of the van with Agent Sadusky. They were leaving behind Abigail and Darrel and Joy in hopes that, if Riley made his way home, managed to get away, they would be there, ready to help.

Ben himself was moving forward, because if he didn't, he'd never be able to forgive himself. _This is my fault. All my fault_. He kept imagining different scenarios, each of them ending with Riley dead, and prayed to God each time that they wouldn't be proven true.

**Sorry this took so long. Band season is killer. Review?**


	6. Burnt Gold

_Fairy tales do not tell children dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children dragons can be killed. __**G.K. Chesterton**_

Ben tried to control his anxiety as he sat in the car next to Sadusky, who was chasing every lead they had through Pennsylvania. Already the old Mountaintop home, the school, the extensive backyard had already been discounted as hiding places.

"Where now?" Ben asked, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. After all, it wasn't Sadusky he was mad at, but himself, for driving Ben away, mad at Pop, for twisting Riley's sensitive mind in the first place.

Sadusky stared at Ben, as if weighing whether or not to tell him the truth. "Now we hope, Ben. And pray that someone's seen this bastard or his car." He put a hand on Ben's shoulder. "We'll never stop looking, Ben, but the truth is he could be anywhere, anywhere at all."

He'd thought he was prepared for that news, but that didn't stop the realization that he might never see Riley again from settling in his stomach like a physical weight, a pain. Would that be what his life would be like without Riley? Would he always feel the absence of his son like a phantom pain from amputated limbs?

Without any conscious thought, without him having called them up, memories of Riley came, bombarding him in a storm so quickly that the breath was knocked from his body by the force of them.

It was two years ago, and Riley had lived with the Gates for three months. He hadn't been expecting anything for his birthday. Why would he, when he'd already been given so much by the promise of adoption? But Ben would never forget the boy's face when he came into the house after an afternoon with Darrel, would never forget the open surprise on the face that so rarely showed emotion, another lesson from Pop.

"Ben…" And Riley bestowed on him one of the rare hugs, something that Ben always knew was to be treasured. Even two years after knowing Riley, he could still count the exact number of times Riley had wrapped his arms around Ben's body, held him tight in an embrace.

It was a year ago, and they were driving through the country, before _this_, before kidnappings and suspicion and pain that ate Ben from the inside out. They were going to meet Abigail and Grace and Abigail's parents' house. Ben and Riley had stayed behind for a science competition, and Riley and Darrel had made a robot that could dance, could shake hands. They'd blown the competition out of the water.

The robot was in the backseat, as Darrel had said, generously, that he could take it to show Abigail and Riley's grandparents.

It'd been raining. Riley stuck his head out of the window, staring up at the sky, letting the raindrops fall on his head. "Stop that, Ri. Get back in here!" Ben's hands gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles turning white. He didn't like driving in the rain, but they weren't all that far from their destination.

"Ben?" Always _Ben_, and Ben didn't mind. His name sounded different when Riley said it, like the boy had held it in his mouth, holding onto the word like a security blanket. "Maybe we should pull over, wait this out. The storm is going to be violent."

It was raining, but it had hardly been a storm. "C'mon, Ri. Where's your sense of adventure?"

Riley sat back against his seat, one arm draped over a knee that was bent up onto the dashboard. "It's too wet for adventures, Ben."

Everything happened at once. Ben let out a barking laugh and glanced sideways at his son for a moment, just a moment. Lightning forked, splitting the sky in two, severing a branch up ahead. Riley screamed once, and Ben stomped on the brake, jerked the wheel, but not quick enough.

They swerved off the road, hovered for a moment on the precipice before the ditch that lined the highway. Riley was screaming in Ben's ear, until he wasn't.

The roads were deserted, which Ben didn't notice until he cracked his door open, shaken and bruised but unhurt. He hurried around to the other side, where Riley was draped against the door. The bone in his arm stood out ghastly white, poking through skin and bringing with it blood and, undoubtedly, pain.

It was obvious that Riley was the one who'd suffered the brunt of the injuries, other than the robot, sitting broken and forgotten in the back of the car. Ben had never been happier for cell phones than he was at that moment, dialing 9-1-1, Riley's head in his lap. He whispered words to the unconscious boy and prayed for the rain to stop, for the grey day to end and take this pain with it.

It was six months before, and Riley had another nightmare. They'd happened with less frequency as time went on. In the beginning, every night Ben would be awakened by cries of terror, screams that slashed right through Ben's own heart.

Riley was awake, eyes blinking at him in the dark, reflecting light from the crescent moon out the window. "'M okay, Ben. Really." But there was a boyish doubt in the tone, as if Riley himself wasn't quite sure what – or who – he'd meet when he fell back into the arms of Morpheus.

"Scoot over." Ben lowered himself onto Riley's bed, keeping his distance, knowing from too many sleepless nights that Riley would not appreciate being touched after the terrifying visions. "Want to hear a story?"

"Not really. History just puts me to sleep." Neither mentioned that sleep was the point of the exercise. Ben knew that, in time, Riley would be forced back into the dreams, and Ben could only ease the process.

"How about a fairy tale? Do you like Hans Christian Anderson or the Brothers Grimm?" At Riley's blank look, Ben frowned. "No fairy tales, huh?"

"Pop wasn't really a storyteller, Ben, and they don't exactly teach _Little Red Riding Hood_ in tenth grade."

"How about Snow White?" Ben suggested. He had a general idea about the story, having seen the grossly inaccurate Disney version and been a fan of the Grimms' from a young age. He began relating the story a girl who escaped an awful parent only to find that the entire world wasn't so horrible. Before the part where the witch came back, disguised, Riley had fallen asleep, and the lesson was lost.

Still, Ben finished the story, drawing he covers back over his sleeping son. "Then in came Prince Charming, who broke the curse with a kiss and swept Snow White off her feet. And everyone lived happily ever after."

If only it were that easy.

* * *

Pop may not have had a job, wherever they were staying, but he managed, between hustling and other, more shady scandals, to acquire enough money to leave Riley for most of the day. Whether he was drinking or smoking or God knew what else, Riley was glad for the respite, however brief.

He canvassed the basement, where Pop had left him, feeling like Huckleberry Finn, trapped by his own father. Except that Riley didn't have the Mississippi nearby to escape on. Perhaps basement was too grand a word: the hole he'd been left in was perhaps four feet by six feet, with eight creaking steps leading up to a trap door in the ceiling, sealed, no doubt, by some heavy piece of furniture.

Collapsing on the floor, he drew his knees up to his chest and waited. He was used to long days chained to the floor, thrown in the closet or basement until the time was more convenient for Pop. Long ago, he'd learned that sleep was the quickest way to pass the time.

Riley was thankful that it was summer, albeit a cold one. He knew that the dingy basement would likely be frozen in the winter, and Pop was so careless, he might just leave Riley down long enough to freeze.

Pushing the thought away, Riley lay his head on his lap, trying not to think of the night that was waiting for him, of a rickety bed and the smell of booze on Pop's breath as he told Riley to be quiet, damnit. He tried not to think of Ben, who was coming, surely, because Riley wasn't sure what he would do if he was left with Pop too long.

He tried not to think of the tiny nugget of his brain, the portion which had led him to let go of the rock two years ago and drift in a stream too cold to survive in. But trying not to think about suicide made the option grow larger, more persistent, until it seemed to take up his entire mind.

Attempting to summon up happier memories was even worse, as Riley was led to remember Ben's hand on his chest, pushing him out of the way preferring the newer, younger, cuter baby over him.

So instead, Riley lay on his side and tried not to think of anything at all.

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	7. Bruised Purple

_I feel as if my whole life has been nothing but a dismal play, presented for someone else's amusement, and that the playwright who invented my cruel twist of fate is somewhere far above me, laughing and laughing at his creation. __**Series of Unfortunate Events**_

Riley made no noise when he woke up. He wasn't ready to face Pop, wasn't ready to move and aggravate the new sores that had erupted all over his body, wasn't ready to remember that he wasn't with Ben anymore.

But lying in that bed only brought back flashes of the night before, melting together with the hundreds of nights before that, in another bed, in another room. _Hush up, son….out of practice, aren't you? We'll fix that…_ Riley shifted slightly, trying to get away from the memory, just managed to catch the groan before it slipped past his teeth.

He'd forgotten about the pain, bone-deep and terrible, aches from every fiber of his body. Pop was right – he'd grown soft with the Gates. Before, he'd be able to go to school after a night like he'd just had. Now it would be a struggle just to rise from the bed.

No sounds from the other room, the only other room the tiny shed had. When Riley tugged on the door handle, he found it locked. That wasn't unusual. Another thing, from those years with Pop, the endless hours of _nothing_. Even now, when Riley tried to remember other summers, with Pop out drinking, gambling, or, God forbid, working, and he, Riley, locked in the old Mountain Top house…hours were different spent alone, longer and shorter at once.

There was a cracked mirror that Riley didn't dare look in as he slowly dragged himself around the room, looking for any cloth he could make into bandages. Not only did he hurt _down there_, but his back and legs were bruised, with raised welts on them from a belt, then a smooth piece of wood that might have been a cane.

Another thing he'd forgotten, or pretended to forget, Pop's voice in his ear as he delivered the blows. "You know this is because I love you, son. You deserve this."

But it didn't work as well as it had before, when he was young and vulnerable and knew no life other than Pop. Ben and Abby and Darrel had shown him that you didn't need violence to show love. While Pop continued to talk, Riley did his best to detach his brain, to drift back to two days before, when he was packing for a trip to the Rockys, and Ben had smiled at him, told him he was happy (happy!) Riley was coming along.

There was no cloth, other than the piss-poor clothes Riley was wearing. He took off his shirt, hissing as the burns, now covered with cracking scabs, made themselves known. Another memory – a hand pushing him out of the way, and Riley flinched again. Did Ben know how much he'd hurt Riley with that simple action?

Did he care?

Unwilling to let himself travel down _that _avenue again, Riley sat on the floor, because he couldn't bring himself back to the bed, not after what had just happened there. He tried to stop thinking, to just let time pass over him like it had before, moving fluidly until, after a few blinks, several heartbeats, the sun would be gone, and Pop would be back, and the nightmare would start again.

But this time, when he tried to think of happy things, or not think at all, the only thought that wandered aimlessly across the landscape of his brain was: _How many days will I stay here?_

By the end of the afternoon, Riley had promised himself that, if Ben didn't find him, and soon (how soon he didn't dare admit, even to himself), he'd take fate into his own hands. Suicide hadn't worked the last time, because Ben had saved him. Maybe Ben would save him again, maybe he wouldn't. Maybe Riley would die. Either outcome would be better than this half-life, caged in and cold with Pop.

When Pop finally did get back, smelling of cigars and cheap booze, he immediately unlocked the door in Riley's room. "Oh, how I missed you, son."

When Riley was younger, he had been so sure this was the only way parents showed their children love, with soft kisses and harsh nights. Now he submitted, thinking all the while of his other life, yearning to be back at his real home.

***

When Darrel was eleven, his parents had told him he would be a big brother.

He'd fumed over that – he'd been an only child since birth, and while he would have liked a sibling when he was younger, now at eleven he would serve as…a much older cousin, a useful babysitter. Not a brother, or a sibling, or a friend.

His fears were confirmed with the arrival of triplets. It is hard, as anyone could tell you after being around them long enough, to get "close" to multiples. They live in their own little world of twos and threes, happy enough to play alone, not even noticing when they left out their big brother.

Now four boys shared the small house near the center of town with their parents, who had little enough time for just Darrel, never mind new babies. Darrel found himself escaping more and more into alternate realities, where he could be a knight, an alien, a conqueror, a savior. In video games, he had control, and wasn't that just what he wanted in his real life?

Isolated from his peers because of his affinity for computers and high GPA, Darrel was content in his loneliness until Freshman year, until Riley.

He'd understood Riley on a basic level, knowing instinctively not to ask about the welts obvious on his back, the strange twist to move of his appendages, born of too many breaks. They spent their time studying, building video games, laughing at black and white movies, cheering for sports teams. Darrel knew he was Riley's only friend, his best friend. He'd never been able to find out if Riley knew the situation was mutual.

And now he was sitting cross-legged on the Gates' kitchen floor, watching Joy as he she colored in a picture of Independence Hall – obviously, the book was from her father. He watched and waited, and soon enough ten minutes had passed, an hour, two hours. He made Joy a sandwich, trying to ignore the police, still canvassing the street, the house, looking for clues that would lead them to Riley.

He left the door open when he walked outside to stand next to Mrs. Gates. "Here," he draped her favorite white sweater around her shoulders, "It's a cold summer."

She didn't reply, but clutched the fabric tighter around her, staring blankly out into the yard. "It'll be okay, Mrs. Gates." She'd told him a million times to call her Abigail, because Mrs. Gates made her feel old. She wasn't old, not at all, and when she came around school to pick up Riley he'd heard the other boys' cat-calls, telling her exactly how un-old she was. But even though Riley called her Abigail, or Abby, Darrel could never bring himself to mirror his friend. It was always, with him, Mrs. Gates. "Riley's smart. He'll find a way out."

Still no reply, and Darrel sighed, retreating back into the house, to the toddler happy at the table. He wondered if the girl knew, understood, that her brother was missing, was in the hands of the devil himself?

In a sudden move, he knelt and hugged Joy, hoping, as he often, irrationally did, that her name would ease his grief. The solid, damp weight of the child in his arms grounded him, made him realize that, yes, this was happening.

And Riley had just come back from the doctor, who said he was, after two years, officially healed, though he had the most warped skeleton on record. And Riley had just gone ice-skating, another first in a long line of firsts. And Riley had just been the only person to remember Darrel's birthday, had given him his own laptop, now, impossibly, mutated to have twice the memory, _Happy Birthday, Darrel_, making all the bitterness he felt towards his parents go away.

The tiny girl in his arms, who was looking more Asian every day, looked up at Darrel, traced the path of a tear running down his face. "Darry sad?' She and the triplets were the only ones who called him Darry. The lump in his throat grew large until he couldn't get any words passed it, could only nod. Yes, Darrel was sad, and frustrated he could help, and worried, so, so worried, that he wouldn't see his best friend again.

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	8. Brilliant Blue

_To hear the phrase "our only hope" always makes one anxious, because it means that if the only hope doesn't work, there's nothing left. __**Series of Unfortunate Events**_

"We need gas." Ben pointed out dully, looking at the traitorous light on the dashboard and out the window at the misty summer day, looking everywhere but Sadusky.

The agent sighed, swiped a hand through his hair, and turned off the highway, because they really did need gas. "Ben…" And there it was, that _note_ that _something_ in Sadusky's voice, that little twang that made Ben wish to strangle him for three days. "Ben, I want to find the kid as much as you do. Remember when he came into the office and decided our computers weren't good enough?"

"'Substandard operating equipment.'" Ben nodded, his mouth twitching at the memory of Riley sitting in one of the big FBI chairs, spending the afternoon updating the computer system. "'You'd think the government would splurge on some actual technology.'"

Sadusky laughed sadly, and in a moment of real panic Ben realized that this is what people did when someone had died. They went on road trips, went through denial and anger and depression until they could sit around and tell stories and laugh and get over it.

But he would never be ready for acceptance, not this time, not with Riley. On one memorable occasion, two years ago, when they were still getting to know each other, Ben had taken Riley to the hospital. The teen had looked dully at his thirty-something broken bones, his eyes red but miraculousy without tears. _It would be better_, Riley had said, absolutely, horribly serious, _if I had just died. I'd kill myself before going back to him_.

And he almost had, though Ben was sure now that _that_ time had been a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of deal. Or at least that's what he hoped.

But he could never give up on Riley, not when they still had so much to do. Riley had never been to the west coast, let alone outside of the United States. He'd never been on a date, or seen a live NFL game and, Goddamn it all, Riley didn't deserve the horrors he was undoubtedly suffering at the hands of his father.

Sadusky was talking again as they pulled into a Wawa, still wanting gas. "Ben, I know you love the kid --"

"He's my _son_." Ben bit out, eyes flashing. Those who knew him – Abagail, his parents, close friends – thought he was overprotective of Riley, and he'd always respond with, yeah, he was. Because the kid hadn't thought his life was worth a damn before Abby decided she wanted to rescue someone from the foster system.

Sadusky continued, leaning in to the car through the open window while filling the car. "I know you love Riley," and his voice was soft, anything but argumentative. "But this is bureaucracy's worst nightmare. He could be across state lines – could be in another country. The father's dropped off the grid, abandoned the car, ditched his credit cards and cell phone…"

"Are you telling me you've given up?" Ben demanded, hackles raised.

Sadusky either growled or groaned, taking the receipt from the machine with malice. "I'm telling you that I won't stop the case, but that there's a lot of people in this country and we're looking for two. It's like finding a needle in a stack of needles."

He put the car into drive and Ben shook his head, thinking that there was no way he was going o stop looking for Riley. He needed to find the teenager because this whole debacle was his fault. He closed his eyes, breathing hard, and could still hear the gentle smack of his hand against Riley's much smaller body, the dull thud of his son falling to the floor.

"Hey!" Someone at the window, a teen maybe a little older than the one they were searching for, dark hair, acne scars, eyes round with teenage indignation. "You the cops?"

"FBI, son. What's the problem?" Even Ben could sense there was a reason behind this jittery boy, and he didn't have twenty years in the law enforcement business under his belt.

The teen pointed hard at the small store he'd just come out of. "We called the cops forty minutes ago when the guy showed up. He was causing trouble."

More like a local cops job but the FBI, and Ben let himself sink back against his seat, worried and grieving and exhausted, wishing Abigail was next to him, wishing for Riley's company even more. He didn't pay attention to the exchange between Sadusky and the affronted clerk until the teen mentioned the only physical trait he'd retained about the hell-raiser. "There was something wrong with his face…I couldn't figure it out at first, just knew there was something off, you know? Then Missy pointed it out after he left…he had one blue eye and one brown eye. Said her cousin was the same way."

One blue eye and one brown eye…Ben knew that different colored eyes was a random mutation, that they happened in one out of every five hundred people, usually varying the color between the eyes only slightly. He knew it was a long shot, but he snatched the folder from the center console and flicked it open, thumbing through the paper work until he found a picture of Mr. Poole, Pop, the man Ben wanted to kill with his bare hands.

Staring back at him from the picture was a man with a much broader build than Riley, though the same floppy brown hair and straight nose. But of the eyes glaring from the photograph, one was the color of hard rock, the other the green of wet grass.

"Is this the guy from the store?" Ben demanded, shoving the picture under the kids' nose and pointing out the eyes…the eyes.

The clerk's eyebrows reached to his hairline and he nodded excitedly. "Yeah, that's him." Then, rallying, said, "and he destroyed, like, three of our shelves. Wanted alcohol, though from the way he was smelling he was drunk as a skunk already."

Ben reached around Sadusky to pump the kids' hand, leaving the teen with the impression that the man riding with the FBI guy was not all right in the head. "Thank you." Ben said, and he'd never been more sincere, more grateful, in his entire life. "Thank you."

There was little more relevant information the kid could give. "We have a camera, though." He said, sensing something bigger than a disturbing the peace charge. "It's pointed at the parking lot. We get vandals, sometimes, mostly punk kids, but it might have picked up the his car, or the license, or, you know," the kid shrugged, abashed at the rapt attention these two grown men were giving him, "the direction he was going."

"That's perfect, kid." Sadusky said, already whipping out his cell, calling the FBI tech department, other units, the local authorities, anyone he could think of. "That's great. You did great."

As they got out of the car (now parked in a regulated parking space in front of the Wawa), Sadusky turned to Ben, took off his sunglasses, and allowed a smile to spread across his face. "Do you believe in fate, Benjamin Gates?"

Because there were so many impossibilities here. If they hadn't noticed the flashing gas light, if they hadn't pulled into this particular station, if Pop hadn't been quite so drunk, if the clerk hadn't been looking for justice, if he hadn't mentioned anything to tip Ben off…so many ifs, so many improbabilities.

But for the first time in three days they had a lead. And for the first time in three days, Ben allowed himself to believe, really believe, that there might be a way to find his son, so he could hold him and never let go. And as they walked into the small store, he nodded in response to Sadusky's question. He did believe in fate. He had to.

**I know this chapter was all about Ben, but I had to give the guy some hope.**

**Anyways, please review.**


	9. Cold Steel

_And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you will know. _

_God bless you please, Mrs. Robinson, Heaven holds a place for those who pray. **Simon and Garfunkel**_

Wawas were a thoroughly Mid-Atlantic feature, one that the residents of South Jersey and eastern Pennsylvania would be loathe to do without. A combination of convenience store, gas station, and fast-food restaurant, they often morphed into community fixtures, hang-out spots, code words.

When Ben entered the Wawa that fateful afternoon, he wasn't surprised to find a smattering of teenagers milling about, as well as a few adults, all buying groceries or soft drinks, chatting amongst themselves, happily oblivious to the plight of a parent in their midst.

"This place has cameras?" Sadusky asked, and the teenager – Tyler – nodded, waving a girl over to him. Both were dressed in Wawa T-shirts.

"Missy, can you show this guy the security stuff?" He leaned in closer, "He's FBI. Apparently, that dunk dude was pretty dangerous." The girl paled slightly, her pretty black face betraying her astonishment at having a felon show up right in front of her.

Sadusky followed the girl out, leaving Ben with the other teen. Ben leaned against the counter and watched the people move about their business, trying to regulate their breathing. This was the first real lead they'd had since Riley was taken.

"Dude, are you okay?" Tyler's voice was gentle, polite, slightly mortified to be watching an adult on the brink of a nervous breakdown. It was so like Riley's voice was Ben laughed out loud, realizing at that moment that he might be slightly hysterical.

"What did that guy do? Rob a bank?"

Well, that sobered Ben up real quick. He looked at the teen warily but saw only an open, expressive face. Without Tyler's unknowing help, they would be on the road going nowhere. He owed the kid something. "No, he didn't." Ben took a deep, shuddering breath. "He kidnapped my son."

"Dude." The word was pushed out like a sigh, a moan. "That's rough. How old is he? Your son?"

"Sixteen." Suddenly, Ben wanted to tell this stranger all about Riley. How he was so great with Joy, how he could hack into a computer in thirty seconds, but also knew them inside out and backwards. How he'd somehow wormed his way into the hearts of Ben, of Abby, of Darrel. How so many people were going to benefit from Tyler's information.

"The man who took Riley was his father – his biological father. But Riley's my son." The last part came out fierce, as if daring anyone to find fault in those words. "Riley is _my_ son."

Tyler nodded easily. "I get it, dude. Me and Missy, we're, like, foster sibs I guess. Mrs. Moulder saved us both from the system a couple'a years ago. I was just a regular old neglected little dude – scavenging in the streets and stuff. My bio parents never even looked for me. But Missy…well, her dad was always…sweet on her, you dig?"

Fate revealed itself in such off ways. Ben stared at this kid, trying to work through the odds of finding a boy just like Riley, one who had helped him, one who had given him, Ben, the only lead. He had grown up Catholic, but had believed more in karma than miracles. Now he was starting to reconsider his old thinking.

"So you're trying to save this kid, right? Protect him? That's pretty radical, dude. Last year, Mssy's bio dad? He tried to get her back, but he went through courts and all that legal shit. Didn't work, though, 'cause Missy's a tough bird. She testified against her dad, now he's in jail." The facts slipped easily from the boy's mouth, and Ben stopped trying to add up all the similarities.

Tyler leaned close to Ben, as if telling a great secret, as if they'd previously been talking about the weather, not messed-up, unfair lives. "Mrs. Moulder adopted both of us after that. Cool, huh? But, yeah, my moms would probably be just like you, hunting down every lead if one of us went missing."

"Kidnapped." Ben corrected, though even to himself to couldn't quite explain the difference.

Sadusky returned with the girl in tow. "My team will be down here within the hour to go through the system more thoroughly." Sadusky said, "But we have the license plate and we have the direction her was going." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the driveway before pulling it hard to the left.

"Go west young man," Ben joked, cracking the barest smile. "Tell me that car is registered to someone in the area."

"Better. It's registered to a couple who left it at their cabin for the winter. Their abandoned cabin." Sadusky took out a page and read off an address, remarking that he'd never heard of such a place before, but there was a first time for everything.

Tyler was looking more and more excited by the second. "Hey, Missy, make sure these FBI guys don't mess things up too bad, okay?"

His sister looked at him suspiciously. "Where do you think you're going?" Ben was wondering the same thing.

"They need a navigator." Tyler said happily, looking so much like Riley at that moment that it made Ben's heart physically ache. "And I need something to do."

"I believe you were working." Missy said, shaking her long dreads. "Go on. I'll tell mama not to wait up on supper."

Tyler looked hopefully at Ben and Sadusky, who both sighed, both ran hands through their own hair in such tandem that the teens starting laughing uncontrollably. "Time is precious." Ben said seriously. "We need to be there as fast as possible."

"No prob." Tyler said, grabbing a drink for the road. "It's, like, right off the edge of where I used to live. It'll take us and hour."

***

Riley was thinking very logically about killing himself.

He thought he'd do it with a knife, while Pop was in the room. He'd found the rusty blade behind the abandoned bureau and knew that it was a sign from God. Kill Pop, then kill himself, and all of this pain would be over.

Pain. Riley gasped slightly as one false movement hurt his ribs, which were bruised or broken. He knew he looked a mess – his face was swollen to the touch, and his nose was tender. But most of all, he hurt down in his lower back, his thighs, his legs. His head hurt. His soul hurt.

He touched the burns on his collar bone. They were tinged black and green, which Riley took to be a bad sign. A physical reminder that Ben didn't want him anymore, that Pop was right. There was no life for him outside these four walls, which is why he couldn't just wait it out, couldn't escape.

Riley couldn't stand it if Ben rejected him outright. At least in his head there was always that glimmer of hope, but face-to-face, being told point-blank that Riley had been a temporary situation…well, that would ruin Riley more than he was already ruined, soiled, broken.

So he was thinking about killing himself. He knew that if he went through with the deed he would have to kill Pop, too, because even with his brain-washing voice, he knew deep down the man was evil, just as he knew deep down he was never meant to have a true family, that he was useless.

Ben went to church every week. To Riley, it was a new experience, but surprisingly comforting. The weekly ritual of waking up early on Sundays for mass then going to get some breakfast while Ben explained the finer points of the Catholic church and their interestingly bloody path was always looked forward to.

And Riley found himself believing in God.

Pop had believed in eternal damnation, or at least that's what he taught Riley. He'd believed in fire and brimstone. But Riley found that confession and repentance and good deeds went farther in the eyes of God than any acts that his father had forced him to perform.

Which was why he was grappling with suicide. He knew that Ben didn't want him, he knew he didn't want to go back into the foster system, and he knew that Pop would kill him, eventually, slowly. Suicide seemed the only option.

But, oh, Riley was looking forward to the afterlife. He was so _tired_. Tired of being forgotten, ignored, in pain. Tired of being told he was useless or worthless or dirty. He wanted to rest for a thousand years, and he couldn't do that if he committed suicide, if he was damned to Hell.

He could still hear Ben's voice, talking through his eggs and bacon one Sunday not too long ago. "During the second coming," he'd explained, "God will grant a second chance to every soul, living and dead, re-evaluate their lives. Except for those who committed suicide. You see, if you throw away God's greatest gift, you don't get a second chance."

So that's why Riley waited so long. He didn't want to go to Hell, where he'd have no chance of seeing Darrel or Joy and every chance for running into Pop. But that night, when Pop came stumbling through the door drunk and mean, Riley pulled out the pocket knife and closed his hand over it until the blade was warm with his body heat.

_Forgive me, Father_. Riley thought desperately, not talking to Pop or Ben, to the one he needed to hear him most.

**Action-packed chapter coming up. Thank Miss Fenway for making Tyler a main-ish character, and for naming him. **

**We've had two snow days in a row and are getting a serious case of cabin fever. Anyone else? **

**And, as always, please revie.**


	10. Bright Pink

_You're looking at Act One, Scene One, of a nightmare, one not restricted to witching hours or dark, rain swept nights. **Twilight Zone**_

He was going to kill himself.

This wasn't the hysterical suicide of a slighted teenage girl, nor the lonely, hasty end of a cornered boy. It had been thought about, pondered, planned meticulously and put off until the last moment.

It had been five days since he'd run out of the Gates house. Five days was all it took for Pop to break him, drive him to this point. He was no longer disillusioned with his lot in life: Ben wasn't looking for him, he knew that now. Of all the things Pop had whispered to him in the dark of the night, it was that one that stuck with him, that fact he believed in.

Ben had Abby. He had Joy. He would look back on this point in his life and remember Riley as that boy he once knew. He wasn't Ben's son, no matter what the adoption papers said. In the end, Ben had chosen Joy – beautiful, perfect, unspoiled Joy – over him.

In the end, that was the hardest part.

Once he'd come to terms with the fact that Ben wasn't coming – it had been five days. Five days and he hadn't been found – it was surprisingly easy decide that death was better, kinder, easier than life.

"Why hast thou forsaken me?" Riley murmured, glancing uselessly at the door. It was still too early for Pop to be back – he didn't know where the man went during the day and he didn't care, as long as he wasn't around the house. But the sun was inching closer to the tops of the trees, and Pop would b e back, and the nightmare would stop again.

He had been left in the bedroom instead of the basement. Perhaps Pop meant this as some small kindness but that wasn't how Riley saw it. This room was _dirty_, in every sense of the word, and with the door locked Riley had nothing to do but stare and think these terrible thoughts.

He'd given up on tending to his wounds, which had begun to scatter themselves over his entire body as Pop re-took what had once been his. He couldn't feel anything beyond his lower back, which was one big bruise. Before it had throbbed in a dull, monotonous way. Riley suspected that it still hurt, but his brain no longer registered.

Five days, and the abuse was now normal.

It was frightening how simply Riley had slipped back into the role of the submissive son. He never thought of fighting back. Even if he'd been bigger – he had been fed regularly with the Gates and had still only managed to gain fifteen pounds in two years – he didn't think he could go against Pop. He would never be that brave.

_Because committing suicide is so brave_.

Riley wasn't waiting for Ben anymore, but being with the Gates had only strengthened his faith in God. He didn't fear death: he believed in a benevolent God, but even a forgiving God would be angry if Riley threw away his life easily.

So he thought about it. For five days he thought about it. He would kill himself in the morning, after Pop left. Logic said that killing himself _now_ would save him from pain, but…

…he believed in God. He believed that Pop was the devil. Most of all, he wanted to believe in Ben. Logic didn't factor in matters of faith.

So he would give Ben until morning, until Pop left. He would give Ben a few more hours, but at the end of it all, Riley would kill himself, because there was nothing left here for him. Except the pain.

Riley winced when the door slammed and the wood of the shoddy cabin creaked under the uneven tread of a very drunk man. He had to bury his head in a pillow to keep from crying out: the abuse was always harsher when Pop was drunk, always had been. He would be more likely to use his fists or a belt or a hanger to keep Riley in place than if he were sober.

And this was no exception.

Just before the doorknob twisted and Pop came barreling in, Riley snaked his hand over to the bedside table, where he'd been keeping the knife he would use the next morning. He closed his fist over it, happy that it fit neatly, easily.

Because suddenly his plans had changed. Suddenly, he decided that if his world was going to Hell in a hand basket – with him right there in the thick of things – he might as well go down swinging.

***

"It's just a little way up here…no, past this street, and then you turn left. It'll get you up into the mountains." Tyler seemed happy to be back in his old neighborhood, had even waved to a couple of street toughs that Ben in a million years would never have pegged as friends as the gangly, bespectacled youth.

But Ben couldn't quite bring himself to tell Tyler to stop talking, please, for just one second, as he might have on a different occasion. They were finally getting near to Riley, and that was the most important thing.

And suddenly there was a hand on his arm, tentative and light as a feather. "Don't worry, Mr. Gates, I'm sure your son knows you're looking for him. We'll have him back in a jiffy." A flicker of something passed over the teen's face and he suddenly looked older, more menacing,, "And that…other guy. He'll be behind bars for a long time, I reckon."

"You reckon right." Sadusky grunted from the front of the car. "There's a three-way split, kid."

"Go right." Tyler said, barely glancing out the window, not even bothering to look at the map he held him in his hands. For some reason, Ben sensed that he didn't really want to know how this boy had gotten his knowledge of the various hidey-holes within the city from.

Ben would never get used to mountains like this, sprouting out of nowhere, climbing steeply and littered with trees and shrubs and the worst roads imaginable. He kept looking for a driveway, a hiking path, something that would point them in the right direction, something that would tell them where Riley was.

He wouldn't even let himself think about what he would do if, for some reason, Riley wasn't here, if all their intel up to this point had been wrong and they were chasing down a false lead. Would he be one of those parents that pop up on the tabloids every once in a while, on slow news days, begging for the return of their child that had been missing for a decade or more? Or, worse, would he forget about Riley a decade from now?

Ben didn't think he could ever forget about Riley. Just like the moment he'd found the treasure had been forever burned in his memory, so would the moment he knew that he would always be Riley's father, when he'd fished him out of that river and felt him come back to life in his arms.

With the treasure, he'd put in a lot of time (a _lot_ of time) in tracing down false leads, researching dead ends. With Riley, he'd put in a lot of time (a _lot _of time) on the easy stuff, the stuff that was supposed to come naturally. It had been a slow progression from _sir_ to _Ben_, it had taken almost six months for Riley to stop flinching whenever he heard a loud noise.

And, in both scenarios, the end product was worth all that time, all that energy, all that devotion. Because those were the two proudest moments of his life, surpassing even the amazing forces of Abigail and Joy. Finding the treasure had been his life's mission. Helping Riley was what made his life worth living.

When looked at it from that point of view, it was easy to see which one was more important, in the end.

"Cabin, straight ahead." Tyler made to jump out of the car before it had even stopped, but that's when Sadusky turned around.

"You aren't getting out of this car, kid. You call the local LEOs, make sure they get out here and have the man power to arrest someone who's probably going to be resisting arrest." Sadusky glanced at the cabin, a hundred yards away (he'd made sure to stop far enough away, so the sound of the car wouldn't tip off Pop, wouldn't make him do anything rash). "And see if they can bring a paramedic with them. We'll probably need one."

Tyler's lips pursed to a thin line and his grip on the cell phone was vise-like. "Don't come in until we're sure it's clear." Ben spelled out, because he recognized the expression on the teen, the head-strong, stubborn look he'd seen on Riley once or twice. He managed a smile, for the kid's sake. "And don't worry. This isn't the movies, no one's going down in a hail of bullets."

Ben and Sadusky ran up the path, Sadusky with a firm grip on his gun, Ben trying to get a firm grip on his emotions, because if he let himself loose on the monster, the way he'd wanted to every time Riley flinched away from him, the cops would be hauling Pop out in a body bag, and Riley didn't need to see that on top of everything else.

For a second, Ben wondered if they were going to burst in the door or go the quieter route, but when a scream broke through the air, a scream that was very obviously Riley's, the question was answered for them. The door was kicked down, Sadusky's weapon drawn up, and Ben was shouting before they even entered the room.

And…this is where irony shows its face for the first time, interceding alongside fate…as it turned out, Ben didn't have to worry about his emotions at all.

Because in the tiny room, Riley was standing over the still form of his father, bloody knife in hand.

**Review?**


	11. Blood Red

_"So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending." **The Hobbit**_

Riley's scream reverberated across some plane of consciousness that linked the characters in the small, tragic story together.

In the Gates home over a hundred miles away, Joy began to cry. The two-year-old rarely threw tantrums and she was picked up immediately by Darrel, who hadn't left his best friend's house for almost two days, but he was shaking, too, because he might have imagined it, but he thought the noise that had thrust Joy into the throes of tears was something like the scream he'd just heard in the back of his own mind.

The sun sank lower. Twilight was approaching, or perhaps they were already wrapped in the midst of that witching hour when no good deed goes unpunished.

Outside, Abigail was sitting, a blanket around her shoulder. Darrel had brought her tea, meals, her daughter, but the teen could not pry her mind from the thought of her son, the one who may or may not be alive. On the third day of waiting, wondering, watching, she flinched, knocking over a cup of luke-warm tea, almost toppling out of the chair at the sound of a scream in the still summer air.

The sun flashed like an eye, looking in places, at deeds, that hadn't been imaginable before that twilight.

Tyler, standing at the car, heard the real scream, not just a phantom. He thought of the man he'd been sharing the car with, the one worried about his son. A sudden, horrid vision of his days living in the streets of the nearby metropolis returned, complete with memories of blood, death, loss. He jumped and cowered at the sound, fight-or-flight response yearning to kick in. But he couldn't move, not yet.

For an instant, the sky turned colors unimaginable. Brilliant blue. Sea Green. Finally, it settled on blood red.

***

"Riley…" Ben wanted to scream the name for the sheer joy that it wasn't Riley on the floor, dead, but the dazed, catatonic look in the teen's eyes made the word come out in a whisper.

"Come here, son." Somehow, the command from Sadusky was the right combination of demanding and sympathetic. Riley, always the obedient child, skirted around the body, wavering for a moment in front of the two men, the sound of the gunshot still hanging in the air.

Ben kept his voice quiet, trying to give off vibes that Riley was currently not feeling right now. "Riley, are you hurt?" Of course, he cold see the clothes, torn to shreds in three days, the scratches and bruises. He suspected welts and worse to be found later…. "Can you make it to the hospital in the car or should we call an ambulance?"

Riley kept staring at him, his face blank, impassive. Still, the dead body of Pop hadn't been mentioned.

"Riley, you're going to be okay." Ben said, thinking that if he just got the boy out of this God-forsaken room than all would be fine. The body would be disposed of. The house would be taken care of. The teen, shaking under his gaze, would go home. And this line of thinking was nothing if not benign, benevolent. With one arm, he went to lead Riley out of the room.

"Don't touch me!" Riley snarled, and it was only at that moment did the two men – one a trained federal agent – notice the weapon again, now raised in a shaking, bloody fist, an act of defense. "You can't touch me!"

"Okay." Sadusky agreed, his voice calm, affable. "Okay, we won't touch you. We don't need to touch you. But we need you to put the knife down, son."

Ben winced at the mistake, blatantly obvious to he, who in two years had never called Riley 'son'. "My son," perhaps, when introducing him to colleagues, and Riley would about bust with pride. But never just 'son', never in casual conversation.

Something flickered behind Riley's eyes, and it was in their depths that Ben saw what had driven this boy to kill. He was in _pain_. A strange, primal pain that he'd seen in few people before, the type of pain Ben would catch glimpses of years before, when Riley first came to live with them and old hurts were dragged from their watery graves.

The knife descended, aiming towards Sadusky, wanting to hurt whatever entity Riley's mind had made the agent into (and the answer to _that_ question was lying on the floor). Inches away from the outstretched hand, exposed flesh, Riley dropped the knife.

"I didn't mean to." For the first time, he was looking directly at something, directly at Ben. "He…and the knife…I didn't mean to hurt _him_…"

Ben didn't miss the emphasis on the last word, thanked all the Gods he'd ever learned about that they hadn't arrived too late. "I know, Riley. Everyone will know. It's self defense, it's okay, you were just protecting yourself."

"Mmmm." Riley couldn't drag up any more words, not in front of Pop, who was still staring at him unblinkingly, a look of macabre incredulity etched into his last expression. He looked pleadingly at Ben, who couldn't help but understand.

"Do we have to wait for the rest of the calvary?" Ben murmured, speaking fast. "Or can I take Riley to the hospital now, and you send some of them over?"

"Take him. Take the Tyler kid, too, he's like a walking GPS and these parts can get tricky. I'll get this filth cleaned up." Sadusky looked at Riley until the two locked eyes. "I'm glad we found you, kid. You did a damn good job. Don't worry about any of this – it'll all blow over."

And as Ben walked out of the house, carefully guiding Riley with the minimum amount of contact – the slightest touch would make him flinch – Ben found himself hoping that Sadusky wasn't just talking about the body, the investigation that would follow. _Don't worry_.

He hoped that was the right course, because his gut told him that as far as Riley was concerned, this was only the beginning.

"Hey," Came a the shaky voice of a teen pretending to be tough, and Tyler was trotting up to meet them at the house, "You okay, kid? You need help walking?"

"N-no." Riley's stutter about broke Ben's heart. When he stumbled across the stones, though, nearly face-planting into rough, uneven gravel, it was Tyler who reached out first, caught him around the shoulders, holding him in a way that touched the bare-minimum of places that Ben knew would be covered with bruises. Places that this teen, little older than Riley, also knew to avoid.

Riley didn't throw off the touch, either. He accepted it. Embraced it. He didn't look at Tyler, kept his eyes down, but he didn't throw off the warm, big hands of a peer. Even Ben, through his relief and anxiety, could tell that this was a good sign.

Ben walked a few paces ahead of the boys, thrust open the back door. "You know how to get to the nearest hospital?" he asked, already fumbling for keys.

"Yeah, 's not far. You got a first aid kit in here, dude? The kid's not looking too hot."

Riley was panting wildly as they drove away from the house, his eyes once again unseeing, unfocused. He was working himself into such a state that Tyler kept throwing worried glances up at Ben, kept patting Riley awkwardly on the arm. "You'll be okay. It's all over."

And though the mantra was repeated the whole way to the hospital, by Ben, driving, by Tyler, Riley didn't seem to believe it.

_It's his eyes_. Ben thought again, remembering the pain he'd seen there. Now there was fear, so deep and palpable that it reached across the threshold of Riley's body and sucked all the optimism out of the car.

Tyler's words became less than meaningful, his comforting, intermittent pats less confident. Ben fumbled in his pocket until a cell phone bounced out into his waiting hand.

"Darrel? Is Abigail with you?"

"Don't worry kid, it's okay. _He's_ okay. Put Abigail on."

Sweeter now, savoring the words, "Honey? We found him." And again, as if he didn't quite believe it himself, "We found him."

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	12. Dove White

_May he be brave, and have the strong head to think with, and the strong heart to love with, and the strong hands to work with and the strong feet to travel with, and always come home safe to his own. **Irish Blessing**_

Ben probably should have expected it.

Professor Gates would have expected it. Mr. Gates, Dr. Gates, the treasure-hunter, treasure-protector who had his entire life in order would have expected and been prepared for it. But Ben, who had been in the car with a shaking and injured Riley, who could think of no way to help him, who had seen that _knife_…Ben had no way to expect it.

"Sir, you'll have to come with me."

Ben looked at the…well, it might have been a nurse or doctor or anyone. Colors were blurring together, since for the past half-hour Ben had been looking longingly in the direction where they'd sped Riley away, the direction, he was told, he couldn't follow.

"What?" He asked, stupidly, staring at the man…definitely a doctor…who was looking at him with a hard expression.

"Come with me." The tone was clipped, not gentle and pitying, as if Riley had been found with major head trauma, ruptured spleen. It was the kind of tone a guard would use with a prisoner.

Ben followed docilely, looking back once at where Riley had disappeared, Tyler in tow. They'd let Tyler in the back, probably because they couldn't disentangle him from Riley's death grip. But not Ben. Ben was left in the cold.

The doctor led Ben to an empty room, Riley's file clutched in his hand. "What's your relation to Riley Poole?"

"I'm his father," Ben said, trying very hard to keep the anger and frustration out of his voice. Those emotions took their leave, but instead his tone trembled with worry, grief, guilt that he couldn't get over. "My wife and I adopted Riley two years ago."

"So you know about his old injuries? And the newer ones? You know he was raped…multiple times." Ben internally commended this doctor, who sounded truly pained by the results of the tests, who seemed to truly want to do right by this boy.

But was going about it all wrong.

Ben lowered his gaze, trying to push his naturally dominant personality aside. "Yeah. I hoped he hadn't been…but I as soon as I saw him I knew…" Ben pushed a hand through his hair and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Look, doc, I think you and I are misunderstanding each other. I'll tell you the whole story, everything, just…is Riley okay? Will he pull through this?"

The doctor seemed to weigh the question, performing an internal debate that Ben could see play out on his face. "Yes," he finally said, "Yes, Riley will pull through. Painfully. With no small amount of emotional trauma. But his current wounds are…superficial, some would say. If not for the fact that they were obvious repeatedly administered to him over a series of days." The doctor locked eyes with Ben and didn't waver. "Mr. Gates, we take child abuse very seriously."

"As you should." Ben said, the relief that had washed over him at the positive prognosis giving way almost immediately to exhaustion so great that, if he hadn't been sitting down, he would have surely collapsed. He'd been sleeping in cars for three days, and fitfully at that. He needed a normal night, but he needed Riley alright more. "And your instincts aren't wrong, doc, his father did do this to him. His biological father."

"Doctor Karbes." The man said, quietly, almost automatically. At Ben's slightly raised eyebrow he colored slightly. "Not doc. Makes me sound like…Elmer Fudd." He winced then, bringing his own hand up to run through his hair, "Actually…Intern Karbes." He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry for…the riot act."

"Understandable. Your tests showed obvious signs of abuse. I adopted him and came in with him. It was…logical." Ben splayed out his hands before him, staring at the wedding band with a strange intensity. "There's nothing logical about this story, Karbes. There's a psychopath and kidnapping just to give it a twist." He looked up, "Just know that everything isn't as black and white as it looks in an X-Ray."

"Sure." The young man said amicably, then, looking chagrined, "You can't see your son until your story is checked by the official routes. I'll make sure that other kid's allowed to stay with him, though."

"Is Riley okay?" Ben asked. This was a different question that before: he was no longer talking about physical health, but emotional, psychological. "Is he…freaking out?"

The college kid playing doctor paused at the door, turned, "Freaking out…might be the best way to put it. But that other one is keeping him still enough for his wounds to be patched up." Karbes blew out the door, "I'll try to get your case to the top of the pile. I think your kid needs you."

Tyler, who was in the room with Riley, knew that _he _needed Ben. _C'mon, Mr. Gates. How hard is it to get past a couple of doctors?_

Because Riley was freaking out. Not kind-of-a-little-bit upset with his situation, but twisting in Tyler's grip, knocking instruments off the wall kind of freaking out. "Riley, please," Tyler moaned, trying his best to keep a grip on the boy, to get his arms wrapped around him. "You're going to hurt yourself. What would Ben say if I let you hurt yourself?"

"He _left_ me!" Riley sobbed, putting out an arm instinctively and hitting Tyler in the gut. "He left me with…him! He promised I wouldn't have to go back and he chose _her_ over _me_!"

The words meant next to nothing for Tyler, but to Riley they obviously represented…everything. He was crying: deep, racking, heavy sobs that seemed to twist something deep in Tyler's own soul. "Hey…Riley, please don't…" but it was useless. Riley was gone, but at least he wasn't flailing any more. The few young, uncomfortable-looking doctors that had started working on the teenager resumed their duties quietly.

"Shh…" Tyler murmured, running a hand through Riley's hair because that was all he knew how to do. He felt a deep, innate need to protect this boy, to help him, and seeing him so…broken…

Tyler knew the meaning of the word _heartbreak_. It was a physical condition, not just an emotional one. It was what happened when the your family abandoned you the streets. It was what happened when your friends were jumped into gangs, living on speed and dying young. It was what happened when you couldn't save the ones who mattered the most.

Yes, for seventeen-going-on-forty, Tyler knew a lot about heartbreak. And he knew it could happen in an instant. Could happen, even, when you least expected it.

"Shhh…" Tyler said again, holding on to Riley, tight, even though that was probably the exact thing Riley didn't want. Tyler was old, very old, had seen way too much in the years that people referred to as _childhood_. He knew hurt when he saw it. He just hoped that, in this case, it wouldn't be permanent.

And, thinking of the man out in the hallway, the man who's eyes told their own story of heartbreak from the first time he'd rushed into that Wawa, Tyler thought that there was no way a condition like Riley's could remain permanent, not with people who loved him so dang much.

But Riley was still trembling, still wincing and jumping every time one of the doctors, especially the male ones, rubbed a cloth over him or wound some gauze around his arm. "Hey, Ri…mind if I call you Ri?"

"No." Riley murmured, the first answer he'd made to a direct question so far.

"Well, Ri, my name is Tyler. I don't think we were properly introduced." He leaned close, until his face was almost buried in the kid's hair (and, man, did this kid need a shower, but Tyler had the good sense enough to keep that little tidbit to himself. He was a good guy. He wouldn't embarrass an obviously frightened kid without good reason.) "This is pretty scary, huh?"

"Mmmm." Riley squirmed backward until he was nearly sitting in Tyler's lap. "I just wish they'd leave me alone."

"Not gonna happen there. I been there and done that. They're gonna poke and prod you to death," he tipped an enormous wink at the closest intern, who was blond and gorgeous with a wedding band, of course, "And then they're gonna put you in a nice bed with an IV until you can't stand it." He paused, then said, quieter, sincere-like. "And your dad's gonna flip his _you-know-what_ when he sees your alright."

"I'm not alright." Riley said, and Tyler was horrified when he noticed tears dripping down the kid's cheeks. "I'm broken again. Ben won't want me back broken."

Well, Tyler had always known that heartbreak was a physical thing, but this made the little muscle throb. He swallowed, hard, then squeezed Riley again. "Kid, I think your Ben is a little bit broken, too." He managed a small smile, which Riley, facing away from him, couldn't see. "I think you guys are perfect for each other."

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	13. Pale Yellow

_There is no remedy for love than to love more. **Theoreu**_

Darrel pointed to the left, "There." He looked over at Abigail, who had been almost comatose the day before, and wondered, not for the first time, if she was fit to drive. But they'd already been driving for three hours. Another five minutes shouldn't hurt. "Mrs. Gates…"

She jumped, turned the wheel. "I'm just so glad he's alright."

"Mmm…" Darrel didn't really know if Riley was alright. It was he who'd spoken to Mr. Gates on the phone, both at the house and in the car. He detected the slight tremor, the fear behind Ben's usually calm demeanor. They drove for another few minutes, Darrel petting Musetta absent-mindedly. He honestly didn't think Abigail realized the dog was in the car. He didn't think she realized anything at all.

"Turn here."

The hospital was large, imposing, sinister-looking, and Darrel wasn't even going to be a patient. He couldn't imagine what his best friend, beaten and shaken and who knew what else, was thinking as he pulled up to the hospital.

Abigail got out, slowly unstrapped Joy from her car seat and shifted her into her arms. Darrel was the opposite – quick, jerky, hands flying to open the duffel and stuff Musetta in. "Shh…" He murmured, leaving the zipper open just a little so the German Shepherd could breathe. "You have to be very quiet or you won't get to see Riley."

Musetta whined, licked Darrel's fingers once, then retreated back into the bag.

Darrel moved in halting steps, making sure not to jostle the bag too much. He pulled ahead of Abigail, lingering in the hallway only for a moment, torn between helping the family and helping his friend.

"Darrel!" Ben looked haggard, worn, worried, but Darrel went to him automatically. Even in his state, with his shirt wrinkled and pants bloodied, Ben was a force to be reckoned with, a man to respect. Darrel found himself being grabbed my the shoulders in a grip tight enough to leave marks. "They won't let me in to see him."

"I'll go," Darrel dropped the bag, prying the hands from his shoulders. "I'll go now. Where…?"

"Upstairs. Darrel…" Ben looked at the squirming bag, at his wife, looking surprised as she entered the doors of the hospital, at the black boy in front of him, his son's best friend. "Sit down, just for a second."

And, just for a second, Darrel's heart stopped, because it was that tone of voice, the tone one uses when telling a child their favorite dog died, when telling a child their mother or brother or sister or friend...

And now Darrel didn't want to sit, he wanted to fly up the stairs and try to find Riley and hope and help and put Riley back together. It was like the puzzles his triplet brothers were starting to love, where you could see only chinks of the picture at once and it suddenly made a beautiful painting. Riley was a puzzle, one Darrel had spent two years laboriously putting together, one that had taken only a week to dismantle.

So he wanted to run to Riley and sit on the bed and listen to his best friend not talk about what happened to him. He wanted to be there. Instead, he did as he had done for the past sixteen years of life. He did as he was told.

"Darrel…" And now the lines on Ben's face were even more apparent, the bruise-like markings under his eyes betraying the older man's own stress. The voice, though, was what really terrified Darrel, scratchy and uncertain and scared. "Darrel, you need to know what happened before you see him…"

"I don't care!" Darrel said plaintively. "I don't care what happened to him, it doesn't matter to me!" It really didn't. He could surmise what had probably happened in that little cabin, could imagine more bruises on Riley's back, more quiet jumps when someone slammed a door too loudly. He could even, painfully, imagine exactly why Riley didn't like being touched, why he was so privet about his body.

Ben was looking at him, a kind of gentleness in his dark eyes. "I know you don't care." His voice was different, too. Compassionate. "But _he _cares."

Riley cared about everything. About how Darrel could occasionally be so mad at his parents, because they doted on the triplets and forgot he was more than a convenient baby sitter. He cared, a listened, and empathized, even though his own life had been so much worse.

A hand touched his, white on black, and Darrel knew that whatever had happened was bad. Ben wasn't the touchy-feely type. A thousand worse-case scenarios ran through his head: Riley, his face unrecognizable from a massive beating. Riley in a coma from head trauma. Riley unable to talk, to hear, to see, to walk.

"What?" He managed to force out before the _what ifs_ made it unbearable to speak. Not knowing was worse. "What happened?"

Ben must have known, must have realized his trouble, because his grip became tighter for an instant. "He killed his father, Darrel. He stabbed him."

A knot uncoiled in Darrel's stomach, his muscles relaxed, his hands unclenched. _Good news_. It was awful to think of killing someone as good news, especially since it was his best friend cast in the role of murderer, but of all the things that could have happened over the last week, this was the best of the worse case scenarios.

After all, it could have been the other way around, could have been Riley in the basement morgue and that SOB father recuperating in the comfy room.

"Is that all?" The words escaped him in a relieved breath. "So Riley's okay?"

Ben stared at him, hard, the grip on his wrist tightening once again. "Would you be okay if you'd just killed your father?"

Darrel bristled. "It was self-defense, Mr. Gates. And we both know that it isn't Pop who Riley thinks of as a father."

The old historian sighed, leaned back in his chair, the hand leaving Darrel's completely. "He hasn't responded to anyone. He wouldn't even talk to me, and now this hospital is keeping me from seeing my son because they think that I'm the one who abused him."

Darrel knew that this was the one great thing between the father and son. Riley was always deathly afraid that Ben would suddenly not want him anymore, would wake up one morning and think that adopting such a broken child as he was a mistake. Ben always seemed to be fearful despite himself, jumping at every opportunity to shield Riley from the hurts that had been inflicted on him. And, when Riley jerked out of a nightmare or a particularly bad reverie and slipped, calling Ben 'Pop', it was worse than if he'd hit Ben, the surprise and pain on the historian's face stood out so well.

"I'll go, Mr. Gates." Darrel patted Ben's knee awkwardly, bundled the duffel back into his arms. He looked over his shoulder, saw Abigail coming towards them, Joy perched precariously in her arms, and lowered his voice. "Look after Mrs. Gates…she's not…she's really scared for Riley." He started towards the staircase, then turned back around. "Don't worry, Mr. Gates. We've gotten Riley back from this before."

Ben forced a smile first towards Darrel, then pointed it at his wife. Darrel hurried away, opening the zipper more. He wondered if there was truth in his own words, if they could get Riley back from the gaping, infested wound of repeated abuse again. Last time, Riley had known no life apart from starvation and abuse and rape. He didn't know about love or friendship, didn't know what he'd been missing.

This time around, Riley must have known that what was happening to him wasn't right. Must have known that the mantra of abuse=love didn't hold water. And to have his psyche ripped apart _again_, to be told he was worthless _again_…Darrel started running.

Skidding into the room, he dropped the bag to the floor, barely noticing Musetta squirming out. Someone – a teenager – was holding Riley down as he thrashed on the bed. "Riley!" He pushed the teen away, who came up spitting, shouting. There were yells from interns and orderlies, about the dog, about the entrance, saying that only family was allowed to see the patient.

Darrel ignored them all, ghosting his hand over the bandages and cuts, the bruises that had once healed and had broken out anew, like a bad, recurring case of acne. "Riley, shh." Riley thrashed again, moaning, eyes squeezed tightly closed. "It's okay, Ri. Everyone's here." And from his feet Musetta barked, seconding his statement. "You're okay."

Riley's eyes opened to slits of utter despair and Darrel felt his heart leap into his throat. "You're going to be okay." At this point, there were people grabbing his arms, his hands, telling him that he had to leave or he'd be thrown out by security, that the patient needed his rest, as if they knew anything about Riley, about his life, about _them_ at all.

"Don't leave me." Riley murmured, one pale hand closing around the freckled teenager whose place Darrel had stolen, the other around Darrel's own black hand. "Please."

"Never." The teenage boy vowed, sitting back in a chair, in it for the long haul with Musetta curled comfortably at his feet.

Darrel, for his part, was even more sure, and he didn't sit down. "How could I?" He murmured, forcing a smile out through the film of tears. "I came here for you."

The smile that broke out across Riley's face – pained and sad and so _damn_ happy to have people there for him…well, that smile broke ever little piece of Darrel's heart.

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	14. Streaked Silver

_"We are not human beings having a human experience; we are spiritual beings having a human experience. **Pierre Teilhard de Chardin**_

Darrel looked across the figure of a finally sleeping Riley. It had taken Ben an hour to convince the doctors that if he had adopted two children, he could have adopted two more. "They're family." He'd said firmly, squeezing Darrel's shoulder.

Ben had finally been allowed in the room, but had left quickly after Abigail started shaking. It wasn't a nervous breakdown, not even close, but a week of constant worry and little sleep, a week away from both her son and her husband, had done something to the woman. Ben led her gently away, then came back to talk to the doctor quietly outside.

Which left the two teenagers staring at each other from over Riley's body. The freckled boy, who had introduced himself earlier as Tyler, looked at his watch. "I should call my mom. She'll get worried."

It wasn't until he mentioned his mother that Darrel realized he hadn't been home in four days. He hadn't called since the day before. Everything was happening too fast – Riley was lying on the bed, and he had just killed someone. He had flinched hard when Ben touched him, like he used to years ago when he first moved in with the Gates.

"Yeah," Darrel said, "I should call my parents, too."

But they didn't move. Riley, even in his sleep, had a firm grip on each of their hands, his light, pale fingers twisting, curling with some nightmare. The steady _beep_ of the machine next to Darrel's shoulder was his favorite sound, because looking at his best friend's body it was sometimes tough to remember that someone so tiny, so frail-looking, could go to hell and back again twice.

"So…" That Tyler kid was talking again, and Darrel looked up. "This kid…what's his deal?"

Darrel would have taken offense with anyone else. First for calling Riley "this kid" like he was just another street urchin, like he could be interchanged with any other person in the world, second for implying that he had to have a "deal." And for a moment, Darrel opened his mouth to say just that, to slice any ties that might have bound him to this other boy. But the open, honest, _concerned_ look on Tyler's face convinced Darrel to shut his mouth again and think about the answer.

How do you explain Riley? At school, the two of them were joined at the hip, talking constantly, laughing just as a often. Teachers who had them would first try to separate them, just to have some peace during lectures. By Christmas they could sit anywhere they wanted, because it was easier to have them whispering than shouting across a crowded room. At school, Riley didn't need an explanation – he was that kid who was lucky enough to be living at the Gates mansion, that kid who would pal around with the black dude.

So Darrel had to choose his story carefully. Riley was a normal kid, when under normal circumstances. They'd talk about grades and colleges and sports and, even (gasp!) girls.

But when he wasn't under normal circumstances, like when the adoption became final and when he'd received the letter informing him of his father's release…well, Riley became a different person entirely.

Reconciling these two people, these two shades of Riley, was something Darrel had learned to do early on. Some days Riley didn't mind being touched, high-fived, hugged, drawn in close to a conversation. Some days he'd get that look in his eye that was at once fear and loathing.

"Riley's special." Darrel said, talking slow, choosing the words of the story that wasn't really his to tell. "He and I compete for the highest grade in the class, and he's the best older brother ever. Better than me. He likes taking care of Joy…I look for every opportunity to duck my brothers…"

This obviously wasn't what Tyler meant when he asked about "the kid's deal". Tyler had been up at the cabin, had heard the scream, had heard, even, that the kid might have killed someone, might have killed his father. Tyler didn't need the gory details – he was smart about this stuff. He'd spent ten years on the streets of Pittsburg. He'd seen kids who were abused, used, confused. He knew the feeling himself.

What he needed was confirmation, because the story his head was spinning for him was too…horrifying, too awful to be the truth. Right?

"The Gates adopted Riley two years ago. He was a foster kid at first, but then they kind of fell in love with him. Good thing, too, or else the State probably would have placed him with his father. Pop." Darrel's voice became low, hard, the word on his tongue tasting like ice. "He was a cruel bastard. I'm not sorry he's dead."

Tyler nodded. He knew the deal. He knew that there were some people – and more often than not they seemed to be grown men – who didn't deserve the life they were given. He'd come across a few of those in his day. Pop even reminded him an awful lot of his sister Missy's loving father.

Here Darrel coughed, and Tyler could see his mind racing, trying to figure out which details to give and which to withhold. It was an old fear that Tyler himself was familiar with – talking about abuse was just too damn _real_ for most kids their age.

So Tyler stopped him, holding up a hand. "I get it. This Pop was hurting him pretty bad, huh?"

Darrel nodded, his free hand going down to pet Musetta (how the dog was ever allowed to stay in the hospital room was anyone's guess). "Yeah."

Quiet reigned in the room and both boys seemed to huddle together. Tyler sat carefully on the end of the bed, his shoulder just barely touching Darrel's. Darrel leaned, subconsciously, toward this tall, freckled teen who had no loyalties to Riley and yet was still sticking around.

And together the two of them formed a barrier, a shield, because someone had to at least try to protect this boy from the god-awful world out there.

Ben's story was less heartwarming than the two teens now sitting with his son. He had Joy on his shoulder as he talked to the doctor, because a kind nurse who looked like the mothering type had clucked over Abby and insisted on buying her coffee. Ben didn't want to leave his wife in that state – dazed to the point of absurdity. But he needed to get Riley home.

"We can't release him until the police get their statements." The same young intern who'd accused Ben of abusing his own son was there, his face drawn.

"Then let them get their statements! Riley will recover so much better at home…he has no serious injuries?" He blanched at his own words, because to many _rape_ and _gouge marks_ would constitute as serious. But Ben knew Riley, knew his son, and the physical marks, though terrible with their own meaning, would not be nearly as detrimental as the psychological scars that would come after Riley remembered the abuse, remembered the final stab that had killed his father.

The intern looked at Ben pleadingly, a look that he'd seen clearly on the faces of the college students during the lectures he gave. The look that was just too tired to care, even if they wanted to. "Mr. Gates, if I could make this process move faster, I would."

Ben ran a hand through his hair, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet to keep Joy from squirming down his arm. She was already calling for "Wi-Wi," and Ben knew that he would have to bring her to her older brother, and soon.

"I just need to get him home." Ben said, unable to keep the note of desperation out of his voice. "Let me take him home. Please."

And the intern, God bless his tired heart, squared his shoulder and summoned whatever strength he had left to give. "I'll see what I can do."

For the first time in a week, Ben felt like he was getting some small margin of control. "Thank you." He looked at the room where Riley was laying, the two boys who helped save him huddled around him, creating a small triangle.

The intern cracked a tentative smile and jerked his head in the direction of the door. "Why don't you go see your son? I'll…" here a yawn, almost suppressed, "I'll take care of this."

"Thank you," Ben said again, moving towards the door. He let Joy down from her perch in his arms and opened the door, aware of her flying ahead and hoping that those two boys on the bed had the presence of mind not to let her jump all over her brother.

Ben squared his shoulders, shut the door, forced a smile on his face. Because this was the hard part. This was the real battle. Now that they had Riley's body back, could they recover his psyche? His soul?

Ben thought so, hoped so, because he truly had no idea what he would do if his son was lost to him again.

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	15. Muted Amber

_Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way. **The Wind in the Willows**_

Darrel sat with his legs curled up to his chest, one hand sketching the outline for a coloring page, the only thing that would keep Joy busy during the long car ride. The other hand he left for Riley, sitting looking blankly out the window as they drove home through the mountains.

Their expedited release from the hospital might have something to do with Agent Sadusky, Darrel thought as the car wound its lonely way through a valley. Sadusky had been a friend of Ben's since before Riley and, though him, Darrel had arrived, a friend from the treasure-hunting adventure that had made the man rich and famous. And he had serious ties with the higher-ups in authority.

Riley, who had always been one for conspiracy theories, didn't trust anyone involved in the alphabet soups of government agencies, but even he would have to reluctantly be in Sadusky's debt after this latest debacle.

They didn't talk during the car ride. True friends never really needed words, and they didn't pass between these two. Darrel had a sneaking suspicion that Riley would confide in someone, and soon, but he'd do it on his own terms, alone, in a place from which he could easily escape. A closed car had too few ways to get out of an unpleasant situation.

But they were finally going home. Home! They needed to go back to the beautiful Gates mansion, where Joy could run freely through the house, padding around after Musetta, only faintly aware that any harm had befallen her beloved older brother at all. Home, where they could begin to think of this as another unpleasant dream, an alternate reality where bad things lurked among them unchecked, unchallenged, undefeatable.

They had spent a hectic twelve hours getting out of the hospital. First was the very real worry that Riley's body simply couldn't manage the trip. Though Ben would claim from here to high heaven that the emotional toll of killing his own father would weigh most heavily on Riley's psyche, Darrel would always think otherwise. Pop was a brute, a monster, someone who even Riley knew deserved death, if anyone did. It would be the physical abuse, the emotional toll stemming from repeated beatings and rapes, that would hold sway over the color of Riley's future thoughts.

After the doctors had reluctantly agreed to let Riley go home, it was the LEOs that kept them in place, demanding answers to questions that Riley could barely even think about, let alone answer. He'd hidden behind silence, an automatic setting from him, and Ben's celebrity status plus Sadusky's clout had gotten them around that obstacle.

Last, but far from least, was the media. A teenage boy kidnapped by his abusive father who killed in self-defense would be a story on any blood-and-bad-news television broadcast any night, but throw in the fact that the boy was the adopted son of none other than The Benjamin Gates (who found the treasure of the Knights Templar, huge news in the media five or six years ago)…well, cameras were going off even before they left the relative silence of the hospital lobby.

Darrel shifted in his seat at the memory of one particular newscaster who, after sizing up Riley, who could have been Ben's child, really, and also Joy, with her very distinct Asian features, had shrugged and thrust his microphone under Darrel's nose. "How does your brother feel about killing his biological father?"

Well, it wasn't that big of a leap, not in a family that had adopted two other kids, one of them Asian, but it was still bugging him for some reason.

Riley, mercifully, slept most of the way home, occasionally moaning in his sleep, though whether in pain from his still-mostly-unhealed injuries or because of his dreams, Darrel could never tell. He would just lean over and touch Riley's leg, a reminder of what was real and what was part of the nightmares. From the driver's seat, Ben would clench the wheel whenever he heard a moan and would say, like a mantra, "almost home, kiddo. We're almost home."

Almost home, and Darrel was so glad for the distraction of Joy who continued to live up to her name. It was she who insisted on _The Lion King_ soundtrack, who wouldn't stop poking Darrel until he sang along, who brought out her crayons and drew pictures of her family (Darrel was included as a red squiggle, and Riley was a blue teardrop.)

But nothing brought more of a relief than seeing the lights of the Gates house reflect off the hood. Home! Somehow, everyone thought the world would not look so bleak at home. Riley would not have to live though a painful and humiliating court proceeding involving the death of his father, or wake up every night with painful nightmares, or endure the stares of kids that would inevitably follow him the first day back from summer vacation.

They were home. And, for just one fraction of a minute, they all breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps, from the familiarity of the settings, they could fix Riley again.

Once before, the Gates had inherited a broken boy, a jumpy boy who believed his fate had been assured from the day he was born. For fourteen years, Riley had endured abuse.

And in just five days, the Gates couple, especially Ben, had proven to him time and time again that what he'd gone through was not only wrong, but unacceptable, inexcusable.

Except this time…oh, this time was different. For a hundred reasons. Riley was sixteen, big enough to start to fight back, and had been hurt worse because of it. Riley was sixteen, and knew that what Pop was doing to him was wrong.

Riley was sixteen, had lived with the Gates for two years, and had been pushed aside for Joy. Ben, for the first time in their relationship, had hurt him. Bad. The burns on his chest and arms had festered, broken, scabbed over, and were now covered in white bandages. Every time Ben came into the room Riley would stare at him blankly, a look of open hurt plastered on his face.

The only bright side of the situation was Darrel, who had begged a leave of absence from his own family to practically move in with the Gates. Riley talked to him, confided in him, needed him. And Darrel needed Riley.

You don't imagine losing a friend, not when the friend is sixteen, healthy, happy. You don't imagine having the friend ripped from your life by a person out of your worst nightmares, a person who still haunts the friend's dreams, who still makes him jump at the slightest sound. You don't imagine the imagining, the knowing that your friend is being hurt and there is nothing, absolutely nothing, that you can do about it.

So you can't imagine the relief of finding them miraculously alive at the end of the treacherous tunnel.

Darrel would touch Riley's arm, leg, anywhere where he knew there wasn't a bruise, just to be sure he was there. Riley would wake up screaming and look around the room to see Darrel curled up on the couch hauled into the room for that very reason. The sight of Darrel (and, more importantly, the distinct lack of Pop) would calm Riley just enough to let him sleep.

But sometimes even best friends weren't enough.

"Ri," Darrel said, three days after they'd returned home, a mere ten after the initial kidnapping. Ten days? It could have been ten months. "Ri." He said again, because Riley wasn't listening to him, not really. He was engrossed in a _Star Trek_ episode, or pretending to be. "Riley…" He didn't' shout, because shouting would make Riley jump and cower, would make him look at Darrel with those hurt eyes. But he did let the word come out in a sigh, a reproach. And Riley did look at him.

"Riley, how long are you going to do this to Ben?" He meant the distrustful glances, the pointed looks, and Riley didn't pretend to misunderstand.

"He hurt me, Dare."

Darrel sighed and turned back to Spock. At least someone in the room was being logical. He let silence hang between them – sometimes silence worked better than the best arguments, and Darrel could keep silence like no other. After a minute he said, "He's not Pop, Riley."

"No, Pop's in the ground because a knife slid into his belly."

Darrel winced at the words, said so coolly, bitten out, but he continued. "He's not the one you're mad at, Ri. I know he's not."

Riley was ramrod straight for a second, a rebuttal on the tip of his tongue, and then he seemed to deflate in on himself. He did that a lot two years ago, was doing it a lot now. It was like he didn't have the passion for pointless arguments anymore.

"No, he's not the one I'm mad at. It'd be so much easier if he were."

Darrel nodded and turned up the volume, letting them both get caught up in the supremely cheesy effects that they both loved. Yes, their lives could be easier in a hundred different ways if the man Riley had killed had never been alive at all…

…But it was still so damn good to be home.

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	16. Passionate Plum

_The only thing that makes sense is moving forward. **Full Metal Alchemist**_

Three weeks after they'd returned home, a month after the initial kidnapping, Riley broke.

It was the second day of school, the second day of their Junior year. Riley and Darrel had almost all their classes together and sat in the back of the classrooms, talking quietly while the rest of the class roared around them, eager to tell about new hairstyles, tans, vacations, boyfriends.

Luckily, in the realm of most teenagers, watching the news or reading the newspaper was not a number one priority. Most didn't know about Riley being taken by Pop, most didn't know that the bruises that were still fading, the bandages that had yet to come off, were just a façade for an even worse injury. Those who did know were never the bullies, the type that would hear the word _rape_ and start harassing the victim. No, the teenagers who knew kept their space after coming up to Riley and asking him, very quietly, if he was okay.

There was a secret code amongst teenagers. They needed only so many words to confirm someone as fine. They understood things about personal space, personal grief, that many teachers seemed to have forgotten.

For the teachers were overbearing, and it was getting on Darrel's nerves, let alone Riley's. They clucked with pity when Riley entered the room, cast him many meaningful looks as papers and textbooks were passed out. When Riley left the classroom, they'd grab his arm and ask him over and over again if he was okay.

Except, unlike the teens who asked the same questions, these adults seemed to be burning with curiosity about the facts that were left out of the news story. Where Riley was barely a blip on the gossip radar of teens who had, frankly, much more important things to talk about, the teachers were a different matter entirely. Their gossip was fueled more by heartbreak that passion, and it seemed that Riley was just the disaster story they'd been looking for.

"I can't believe this!" Darrel raged after he maneuvered Riley away from yet another teacher's probing questions. "Stupid newspapers. Stupid people who read newspapers."

Riley couldn't resist, "Usually people who read newspapers aren't stupid, Dare." He said this with some of his old enthusiasm, and Darrel quirked a half-smile, half-forgetting about the teachers, the students, the media. For now.

When Darrel and Riley talked, it was never about That Thing Which Must Not Be Named. It was always about science fiction shows, school, computers, games they wanted to create, to play, things they wanted to invent. They stayed so studiously away from the topic that, until the first day of school, the whole business might have disappeared all together.

Except for the letters.

They poured in from perfect strangers. Ben's address wasn't difficult to find, him having been such a public figure in the media himself just years ago. Letters full of sympathy, letters saying that Riley should burn in hell for what he did to his father (usually quoting Bible passages), letters with more probing questions than the teachers, letters written by people who didn't quite get the full story.

Riley and Darrel picked up the mail on the way home from school. It took both of them to carry the letters, and there was a slip in the mailbox informing the Gates that there were even more at the Post Office, if they would care to retrieve them, they just hadn't fit in the mailbox.

Sighing, Riley dumped his pile in the trash without looking at them. "It's been a month. You'd think people would have found better things to talk about."

"It'll blow over." Darrel said, though at this point he wasn't quite sure. What he _was_ sure about was that from now until the end of the internet, you'd be able to Google Riley's name and come up with this whole debacle. And some of the news sources were not as kind as the others.

"I'm done with this." Riley said, collapsing on the couch and holding his head in his hands. "I'm just…done."

For the first time in a month, Darrel felt his temper rise. He was usually so mild-mannered that few had ever heard him angry, but Riley did just then. Because Darrel was pissed. "You can't just say you're done and mope around, Riley! You just said it's been a month, and yet you're still acting like a child!"

"I am a child!" Riley shouted back, hackles raised, ready for a fight. "I'm sixteen years old and I've spent a heck of a lot of that time locked up with a psychopath. I thought Pop was out of my life and I got kidnapped, Dare, and then beaten and raped every night for a week. It's not something you just _get over_!"

"No," Darrel said, the exclamation points gone. He wasn't calm, just deadly quiet. "No, it's awful, and it sucks so much that it happened to you again, but you can't just throw in the towel and call it quits. That's not how the game works. What was the point of killing him, Riley? What was the point, if you were going to let him have this much control over you anyway."

It was the wrong thing to say. Bring up the lash marks on Riley's back, the bruises and broken bones, the scars, the raping and beating and violence. But no one could talk about Pop's death, about Riley's hand in it.

It was no normal hundred-thirty pound boy who launched himself at Darrel. This one was fueled by rage and denial and grief, and Darrel didn't stand a chance.

It was a credit to their friendship, to Darrel's character, that he did absolutely nothing to fight back. The tiger that had been Riley clawed, ripped, punched, beat, and Darrel took it, unmoving. Towards the end, when the words became sobs and the fists became weak, Darrel reached out a hand and murmured soothing sounds, sounds he was used to making when the triplets were sick, sounds that would calm this frightened animal.

They sunk onto the couch, Darrel clutching Riley, they were both shaking, both glad that Ben was lecturing again and Abigail and Joy were at mommy and me. Because the fight was between them, the words were between them. Because this was not for the realm of adults, but for that of children who desperately wanted to be adults, who wanted to stop hurting.

"You can't do this anymore, Riley." Darrel murmured. "You can't denounce everything Ben went through to find you, everything they've given you, because of one week."

"He hurt me." Riley muttered, the excuse sounding suddenly dead to his ears. "He burned me."

"Not on purpose, Ri, you know that." Darrel shook his head. "Look, I didn't mean to say that whatever the heck you went through wasn't awful. I know it was. It's just that…it was pretty awful for me, too, and Abigail. And especially Ben. You're killing him, Ri, by not letting him near you."

Riley considered this, then glanced at Darrel before looking quickly at the floor. "Sorry for hurting you."

"You can't hurt me, man, you punch like a girl."

Riley snorted at that, then lapsed back into his contemplative silence. "I think…I think I need help. Like…I don't know, Dare, _real _help. Not that you haven't been awesome…it's just…."

"I get it, dude." Darrel patted Riley's knee before getting up to find where Ben had stashed away all the _Firefly _episodes he'd had taped. "I know I can't get the old Riley back, but I can get one that talks a little more, right?"

"Right."

Of course, with every step forward, there seems to be two steps back. In Riley's case, it was more like a mile in the wrong direction. Because the next day, mixed in with the hate mail, the sympathy letters, there was a court summons, ordering him to court to explain the death of his father.

**Review?**


	17. The Promise of a Rainbow

_"Start at the beginning." Said the Judge calmly, "And continue until you come to the end, then stop." **Alice in Wonderland**_

If only it was that easy.

_.***._

The ending came as quickly as the beginning.

Like most endings, it didn't come with a bang, but with a whimper, a sigh of relief. Things were finally over. Maybe now the real healing could begin.

It was late October. Leaves crunched underfoot, which Riley was grateful for. No one sneaking up on him, not here sitting on an old quilt in the yard.

He was alone for once. Darrel, who had been by his side for a solid month, who had been the one in the idling car waiting for him when he exited his first therapy session, who had picked up the phone at three am when the nightmares came and Ben was just too far away…Darrel was gone, away on a trip with his three real brothers, even though he always claimed that he thought of Riley as blood. The triplets were just family. Riley was his brother.

But his absence, coinciding neatly with Abigail's own visit to her mother, whisking away Joy for the weekend (and was that a wink passing between Darrel and Abby or was Riley being paranoid?) meant that Riley was forced into Ben's company.

He hadn't been avoiding his father, not purposely. More than one person had told him how grief-stricken Ben was when he discovered Riley's absence, and Riley knew himself that Ben was trying like hell to make amends. They had reverted to the roles they'd played when Riley first came to stay with the Gates. No males, including Ben, touched him. Nobody screamed, because that would make Riley whimper and cower, afraid of fists and wood and belts.

The easy camaraderie that had existed between them Before was gone, and Riley had escaped the huge house because he was afraid. Afraid that the relationship he'd thought existed between him and Ben had vanished forever, another victim of Pop.

Outside, Riley read. Escaping into the realm of science fiction was easy for him. Calming. The love of books was something he shared with Ben and Abby, something they'd bonded over the first time around, when Riley was a temporary foster kid and they were philanthropic millionaires. Now it was just an outlet, an assurance that he wasn't alone in the world.

I, Robot had been thumbed through so many times that Riley could recite whole passages from memory, but he read anyway. It was a beautiful day – the air crisp with the scent that belonged only to October, the weather cool enough for a jacket, warm enough to forgo mittens or a scarf.

Leaves crunched underfoot, and with everyone else Riley knew away with their own lives, he knew it had to be Ben. He didn't look up from his book. He didn't know what to say to this man who had once been so integral to his life, the man he was too afraid to let back into it. Afraid of betrayal, of heartbreak.

Ben settled onto the carpet of leaves, staring at the pale blue sky that matched so exactly the blue eyes of the boy he loved so dearly. Sighing, he tried to find a way to broach this gap that existed between them. Riley was healing – slowly, stiltedly, but he would shake off Pop again as he once had, embracing Darrel and Joy and Abby and every other part of his Cinderella-like existence.

Ben just wanted to be a part of that, and didn't know how to get into that inner sanctum. Darrel and Abby had collaborated somehow, he knew they had, to give him this weekend with Riley. That was all it used to take for them – Riley hung on his every word, or had. Before the whole Pop debacle, Riley would have sworn up and down that the sun rose and set on Benjamin Franklin Gates.

"I remember the first time you went to the ocean." Ben said suddenly, surprising himself with these words. "You were terrified. Thought we were going to leave you behind when we left the Jersey Shore."

Riley always used to think that. He would never stray far from Ben's side because he was afraid that he would be cast off, forgotten, discarded like yesterday's news. Onto the newer, happier children.

"And getting you into the ocean was a bear. Like we were sending you into the lion's den, but that was at the beginning. Back before you started feeling safe enough around us to pipe up and say that something made you uncomfortable." Ben smiled a sad smile. Before this past summer, Riley's past would come up sporadically and always with great surprise. _You mean you've never had Chinese food? Never been to the aquarium? Never watched Spongebob? _

"So when I was laying out the towel, I just said to you to get in the water. It was hot. I thought you were itching for some relief from the heat. I thought I was giving you permission. You took it as an order and marched in." Ben looked over at Riley, who'd put the book down and was staring at the same patch of blue sky Ben was looking at.

"You should have said you didn't know how to swim."

Riley's first word in a long while: "Sorry."

Ben had looked up from the beach blanket, the cooler and books and umbrella they'd brought to while the day away at the shore, to look in the direction of the commotion. A lifeguard was diving into the water, and Ben watched for the same reason people stared at accidents on the highway: some things you just couldn't look away from.

When the burly teenage boy had come up with Riley, fourteen then, pale and small from fourteen years in the basement, sputtering water, Ben felt his heart stop.

"No," Ben contradicted on that October day on the lawn outside the house. "No, _I'm _sorry, Ri. For the beginning. For pushing you out of the way in order to get to Joy." Ben hesitated for a moment, then put his hand on Riley's jean-clad leg. "You have no idea how many times I wanted to tell you that, especially when you were missing. I'm sorry, Riley."

Riley nodded slowly. This was what he'd wanted for months now, since the very beginning, when he'd run out of Ben's house with tears pouring down his cheeks, hopes of an excursion to the Rocky's forgotten in light of this betrayal. He'd been looking for an apology.

Now that he had one, though, he found it didn't fit right, like a shirt that was too small. Outgrown. Unnecessary. "No," he said slowly, tasting the word on his lips and feeling the animosity he'd held towards his adopted father fall away with each word. "No, Ben. I would have done the same thing. Joy is two. She could have been hurt…"

"You were hurt."

"You didn't know that was going to happen." Absolution. Forgiveness. What was that thing the Beatles said? Love is all you need? Riley felt those cold, hard feelings he'd been feeling for two months start to drip away.

This wasn't a total thaw – Pop had beaten him, raped him, treated him as less than a human being, and there would always be trauma from his fourteen years under Pop's cruelty, that week thrown back into the pit. There would always be guilt left over from stabbing his father, for his death, even if the court had ruled it self defense without Riley even having to open his mouth to defend himself.

But Riley let himself put out a hand to Ben, let himself be drawn into a hug by the older man, and let himself forgive the way he'd tried to at church for the past weeks.

"I'm sorry for what your father did to you." Ben said, talking into Riley's hair. He was crying, and didn't try to cover it up. This was a moment, reuniting with his son, and he was going to relish it. Tears and all.

Riley muttered something, too, his words obscured by Ben's shirt. "What?" Ben asked, and Riley pushed himself away from Ben's chest.

He was smiling, that sad little half-smile that was always purely Riley, the one that made Ben fall in love with the foster kid two years ago. "I said that Pop isn't my father, Ben. He's not my dad. You are."

In the end, it wasn't a court case or therapy sessions, wasn't the passage of years of anniversaries that brought the father and son back together. The big things never really happen when planned, anyway. They happen when you least expect it.

And that is what makes life so damn difficult, and frustrating, and beautiful.

**The end.**

**This is officially our retirement from the National Treasure category, although we love AU Riley and Ben as a father/son pair. Thanks to everyone who reviewed these two stories. I hope you found what you were looking for.**


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